GIFT  OF 
Mrs.  William  Denman 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

DIFFRENT 
THE    STRAW 


PLAYS  BY 
EUGENE   G.   O'NEILL 

1.  Beyond  the  Horizon 

2.  The  Moon  of  the  Caribbees 

And  Six  other  plays  of  the  Sea 

3.  The    Emperor   Jones;    Different; 

The  Straw 


4.  Gold 

5.  The  Ole  Davil 


PreParat™ 


THE    EMPEROR  JONES 

DIFF'RENT 
THE  STRAW 

BY 

EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 


BONI   AND   LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

DIFF'RENT 
THE   STRAW 


Copyright,  1921,  by 

&    LlVERIGHT,    INC. 


All  rights  reserved 


Pint  firtpling*. .  „".  I . 
Secx>rt&  fainting?. .  * . 


u,  1921 


CAUTION — All  person*  are  hereby  warned  that  the 
plays  published  in  this  volume  are  fully  protected 
under  the  copyright  laics  of  the  United  States  and 
all  foreign  countries,  and  are  subject  to  royalty,  and 
any  one  presenting  any  of  said  plays  without  the  con 
sent  of  the  Author  or  h4s  recognized  agents,  will  be 
liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Applications 
for  the  acting  rights  must  be  made  to  the  American 
Play  Company,  Inc.,  S3  West  4%d  St.,  New  7ork  City. 


The  Bmperor  Jones  and  Diff'rent  were  first  produced 

by  The  Provincetown  Players,  133  Macdougal  Street, 

New  York  City. 


s 

A/  5- 

1*1  21 
fMfJ 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  STRAW 1 

THE  EMPEROR  JONES    ......      143 

DIFF'RENT     .  199 


THE    STRAW 


his  children 


CHARACTERS 

BILL  CARMODY 
MARY 
NORA 
TOM 
BILLY 
DOCTOR  GAYNOR, 
FRED  NICHOLLS, 

EILEEN  CARMODY,  Bill's  eldest  child 
STEPHEN  MURRAY, 
Miss  HOWARD,  a  nurse  in  training 
Miss  GILPIN,  superintendent  of  the  Infirmary 
DOCTOR  STANTON,  of  the  Hill  Farm  Sanatorium 
DOCTOR  SIMMS,  his  assistant 
MR.  SLOAN, 
PETERS,  a  patient 

MRS.  TURNER,  matron  of  the  Sanatorium 
Miss  BAILEY      "I 
MRS.  ABNER        >     Patients] 
FLYNN  J 

OTHER  PATIENTS  OF  THE  SANATORIUM 
MRS.  BRENNAN. 

(The  characters  are  named  in  the  order  in  which  they 

appear) 


SCENES 
ACT  I 

SCENE   I — The  Kitchen   of   the   Carmody   Home — 

Evening. 
SCENE  II — The  Reception  Room  of  the  Infirmary, 

Hill  Farm  Sanatorium — An  Evening  a  Week 

Later. 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I — Assembly  Room  of  the  Main  Building  at 
the  Sanatorium — A  Morning  Four  Months 
Later. 

SCENE  II — A  Crossroads  Near  the  Sanatorium — 
Midnight  of  the  Same  Day. 

ACT  III 

An  Isolation  Room  and  Porch  at  the  Sanatorium — 
An  Afternoon  Four  Months  Later. 

TIME— 1910 


ACT  I 


ACT  I 

SCENE  ONE 

SCENE  1 — The  kitchen  of  the  Carmody  home  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  manufacturing  town  in  Connect 
icut.  On  the  left,  forward,  the  sink.  Farther 
back,  two  windows  looking  out  on  the  yard.  In 
the  left  corner,  rear,  the  icebox.  Immediately 
to  the  right  of  it,  in  the  rear  wall,  a  window 
opening  on  the  side  porch.  To  the  right  of 
this,  a  dish  closet,  and  a  door  leading  into  the 
hall  where  the  main  front  entrance  to  the  house 
and  the  stairs  to  the  floor  above  are  situated 
On  the  right,  to  the  rear,  a  door  opening  on  the 
dining  room.  Farther  forward,  the  kitchen 
range  with  scuttle,  wood  box,  etc.  In  the  center 
of  the  room,  a  table  with  a  red  and  white  cover. 
Four  cane-bottomed  chairs  are  pushed  under 
the  table.  In  front  of  the  stove,  two  battered, 
wicker  rocking  chairs.  The  floor  is  partly  cov 
ered  by  linoleum  strips.  The  watts  are  papered 
a  light  cheerful  color.  Several  old  framed  pic 
ture-supplement  prints  hang  from  nails.  Every 
thing  has  a  clean,  neatly-kept  appearance.  The 
1 


•:  J  :  THE  STRAW 

djisfieF  are  piled  in  the  sink  ready  for 
"A  "dish  pan  of  water  simmers  on  the 
stove. 

It  is  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  a 
bitter  cold  day  in  late  February  of  the  year 
1912. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  BILL  CARMODY  is 
discovered  sitting  in  a  rocker  by  the  stove,  read 
ing  a  newspaper  and  smoking  a  blackened  clay 
pipe.  He  is  a  man  of  fifty,  heavy-set  and  round- 
shouldered,  with  long  muscular  arms  and 
swollen-veined,  hairy  hands.  His  face  is  bony 
and  ponderous;  his  nose,  short  and  squat;  his 
mouth  large,  thick-lipped  and  harsh;  his  com 
plexion  mottled — red,  purple-streaked,  and 
freckled;  his  hair,  short  and  stubby  with  a  bald 
spot  on  the  crown.  The  expression  of  his  small, 
blue  eyes  is  one  of  selfish  cunning.  His  voice 
is  loud  and  hoarse.  He  wears  a  flannel  shirt, 
open  at  the  neck,  criss-crossed  by  red  sus 
penders;  black,  baggy  trousers  grey  with  dust; 
muddy  brogans. 

His  youngest  daughter,  MARY,  is  sitting  on 
a  chair  by  the  table,  front,  turning  over  the 
pages  of  a  picture  book.  She  is  a  delicate,  dark- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  quiet  little  girl  about  eight 
years  old. 

CARMODY — \_After  watching  the  child's  preoccupa 
tion  for  a  moment,  in  a  tone  of  half -exasperated 
amusement.]  Well,  but  you're  the  quiet  one,  surely! 


THE  STRAW  3 

[MARY  looks  up  at  him  with  a  shy  smile,  her  eyes 
still  full  of  dreams.]  Glory  be  to  God,  I'd  not  know 
a  soul  was  alive  in  the  room,  barrin'  myself.  What 
is  it  you're  at,  Mary,  that  there's  not  a  word  out  of 
you? 

MARY — I'm  looking  at  the  pictures. 

CARMODY — It's  the  dead  spit  and  image  of  your 
sister,  Eileen,  you  are,  with  your  nose  always  in  a 
book ;  and  you're  like  your  mother,  too,  God  rest  her 
soul.  [He  crosses  himself  with  pious  unction  and 
MARY  also  does  so.]  It's  Nora  and  Tom  has  the 
high  spirits  in  them  like  their  father ;  and  Billy,  too, 
— if  he  is  a  lazy  shiftless  divil — has  the  fightin'  Car- 
mody  blood  like  me.  You're  a  Cullen  like  your 
mother's  people.  They  always  was  dreamin*  their 
lives  out.  [He  lights  his  pipe  and  shakes  his  head 
with  ponderous  gravity.]  There's  no  good  in  too 
many  books,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  out  rompin'  and 
playin'  with  your  brother  and  sister  you  ought  to  be 
at  your  age,  not  carin'  a  fig  for  books.  [With  a 
glance  at  the  clock.]  Is  that  auld  fool  of  a  doctor 
stayin'  the  night?  If  he  had  his  wits  about  him 
he'd  know  in  a  jiffy  'tis  only  a  cold  has  taken  Eileen, 
and  give  her  the  medicine.  Run  out  in  the  hall, 
Mary,  and  see  if  you  hear  him.  He  may  have 
sneaked  away  by  the  front  door. 

MARY — [Goes  out  Into  the  hall,  rear,  and  comes 
back.]  He's  upstairs.  I  heard  him  talking  to  Eileen. 

CARMODY — Close  the  door,  ye  little  divil  1  There's 
a  freezin'  draught  comin*  in.  [She  does  so  and  comes 


4  THE  STRAW 

back  to  her  chair.  CARMODY  continues  with  a  sneer."] 
It's  mad  I  am  to  be  thinkin'  he'd  go  without  gettin' 
his  money — the  like  of  a  doctor!  [Angrily]  Rogues 
and  thieves  they  are,  the  lot  of  them,  robbin'  the 
poor  like  us!  I've  no  use  for  their  drugs  at  all. 
They  only  keep  you  sick  to  pay  more  visits.  I'd  not 
have  sent  for  this  bucko  if  Eileen  didn't  scare  me 
by  faintin'. 

MARY — [Anxiously.]    Is  Eileen  very  sick,  Papa? 

CARMODY — [Spitting — roughly.']  If  she  is,  it's 
her  own  fault  entirely — weakenin'  her  health  by 
readin'  here  in  the  house.  This'll  be  a  lesson  for  her, 
and  for  you,  too.  [Irritably]  Put  down  that  book 
on  the  table  and  leave  it  be.  I'll  have  no  more  readin' 
in  this  house,  or  I'll  take  the  strap  to  you! 

MARY — [Laying  the  book  on  the  table.]  It's  only 
pictures. 

CARMODY — No  back  talk !  Pictures  or  not,  it's  all 
the  same  mopin'  and  lazin'  in  it.  [After  a  pause — 
morosely]  It's  the  bad  luck  I've  been  havin' 
altogether  this  last  year  since  your  mother  died. 
Who's  to  do  the  work  and  look  after  Nora 
and  Tom  and  yourself,  if  Eileen  is  bad  took 
and  has  to  stay  in  her  bed?  I'll  have  to  get 
Mrs.  Brennan  come  look  after  the  house.  That 
means  money,  too,  and  where's  it  to  come  from? 
All  that  I've  saved  from  slavin'  and  sweatin'  in  the 
sun  with  a  gang  of  lazy  Dagoes'll  be  up  the  spout 
in  no  time.  [Bitterly]  What  a  fool  a  man  is  to  be 
raisin*  a  raft  of  children  and  him  not  a  millionaire ! 


THE  STRAW  5 

[With  lugubrious  self-pity.]  Mary,  dear,  it's  a  black 
curse  God  put  on  me  when  he  took  your  mother  just 
when  I  needed  her  most.  [MARY  commences  to  sob. 
CARMODY  starts  and  looks  at  her  angrily.]  What 
are  you  snifflin'  at? 

MARY — [Tearfully.]    I  was  thinking — of  Mama. 

CARMODY — [Scornfully]  It's  late  you  are  with 
your  tears,  and  her  cold  in  her  grave  for  a  year. 
Stop  it,  I'm  tellin'  you !  [MARY  gulps  back  her  sobs.] 

[There  is  a  noise  of  childish  laughter  and  screams 
from  the  street  in  front.  The  outside  door  is  opened 
and  slammed,  footsteps  pound  along  the  hall.  The 
door  in  the  rear  is  shoved  open,  and  NORA  and  TOM 
rush  in  breathlessly.  NORA  is  a  bright,  vivacious,  red- 
haired  girl  of  eleven — pretty  after  an  elfish,  mis 
chievous  fashion — light-hearted  and  robust.] 

[ToM  resembles  NORA  in  disposition  and  appear 
ance.  A  healthy,  good-humored  youngster  with  a 
shock  of  sandy  hair.  He  is  a  year  younger  than 
NORA.  They  are  followed  into  the  room,  a  moment 
later,  by  their  brother,  BILLY,  who  is  evidently  loftily 
disgusted  with  their  antics.  BILLY  is  a  fourteen-year- 
old  replica  of  his  father,  whom  he  imitates  even  to  the 
hoarse,  domineering  tone  of  voice] 

CARMODY  [GrumpUy]  Ah,  here  you  are,  the  lot 
of  you.  Shut  that  door  after  you !  What's  the  use 
in  me  spendin'  money  for  coal  if  all  you  do  is  to 
let  the  cold  night  in  the  room  itself? 

NORA — [Hopping  over  to  him — teasingly.]  Me 
and  Tom  had  a  race,  Papa.  I  beat  him.  [She  sticks 


6  THE  STRAW 

her  tongue  out  at  Jier  younger  brother.']   Slow  poke ! 

TOM — You  didn't  beat  me,  neither ! 

NORA — I  did,  too ! 

TOM — You  did  not!  You  didn't  play  fair.  You 
tripped  me  comin'  up  the  steps.  Brick-top !  Cheater ! 

NOEA — [Flaring  up.~\  You're  a  liar!  You  stumbled 
over  your  own  big  feet,  clumsy  bones !  And  I  beat 
you  fair.  Didn't  I,  Papa? 

CARMODY — [With  a  grin.]  You  did,  darlin',  and 
fair,  too.  [ToM  slinks  back  to  the  chair  in  the  rear 
of  table,  sulking.  CARMODY  pats  NORA'S  red  hair  with 
delighted  pride. ~\  Sure  it's  you  can  beat  the  divil 
himself ! 

NORA — [Sticks  out  her  tongue  again  at  Tom.] 
See?  Liar  !  [She  goes  and  perches  on  the  table  near 
MARY  who  is  staring  sadly  in  front  of  her.] 

CARMODY — [To  BILLY — irritably.]  Did  you  get 
the  plug  for  me  I  told  you? 

BILLY — Sure.  [He  takes  a  plug  of  tobacco  from 
his  pocket  and  hands  it  to  his  father.  NORA  slides 
down  off  her  perch  and  disappears,  unnoticed,  under 
the  table.] 

CARMODY — It's  a  great  wonder  you  didn't  forget 
it— and  me  without  a  chew.  [He  bites  off  a  piece 
and  tucks  it  into  his  cheek.] 

TOM — [Suddenly  clutching  at  his  leg  with  a  yell.] 
Ouch!  Darn  you!  [He  kicks  frantically  at  some 
thing  under  the  table,  but  NORA  scrambles  out  at 
the  other  end,  grinning.] 


THE  STRAW  7 

CARMODY — [Angrily.]  Shut  your  big  mouth! 
What  is  the  matter  with  you  at  all? 

TOM — [Indignantly.]  She  pinched  me — hard  as 
she  could,  too —  and  look  at  her  laughin' ! 

NORA — [Hopping  on  the  table  again.]  Cry-baby! 
I  owed  you  one. 

TOM— I'll  fix  you.    I'll  tell  Eileen,  wait  'n'  see ! 

NORA— Tattle-tale !    I  don't  care.    Eileen's  sick. 

TOM — That's  why  you  dast  do  it.  You  dasn't  if 
she  was  up.  I'll  get  even,  you  bet! 

CARMODY — [Exasperated.]  Shut  up  your  noise! 
Go  up  to  bed,  the  two  of  you,  and  no  more  talk,  and 
you  go  with  them,  Mary. 

NORA — [Giving  a  quick  tug  at  MARY'S  hair.] 
Come  on,  Mary.  Wake  up. 

MARY — Ow!  [She  begins  to  cry.] 

CARMODY — [Raising  his  voice  furiously.]  Hush 
your  noise,  you  soft,  weak  thing,  you!  It's  nothin* 
but  blubberin'  you  do  be  doin'  all  the  time.  [He 
stands  up  threateningly.]  I'll  have  a  moment's 
peace,  I  will!  Off  to  bed  with  you  before  I  get  the 
strap !  It's  crazy  mad  you  all  get  the  moment 
Eileen's  away  from  you.  Go  on,  now!  [They  scurry 
out  of  the  rear  door.]  And  be  quiet  or  I'll  be  up  to 
you! 

NORA — [Sticks  her  head  back  in  the  door.]  Can 
I  say  good-night  to  Eileen,  papa? 

CARMODY — No.  The  doctor's  with  her  yet.  [Then 
he  adds  hastily.]  Yes,  go  in  to  her,  Nora.  It'll  drive 
himself  out  of  the  house  maybe,  bad  cess  to  him,  and 


8  THE  STRAW 

him  stajin'  half  the  night.  [NORA  waits  to  hear  no 
more  but  darts  back,  shutting  the  door  behind  her. 
BILLY  take's  the  chair  in  front  of  the  table.  CARMODY 
sits  down  again  with  a  groan .]  The  rheumatics  are 
in  my  leg  again.  [Shakes  his  head.~\  If  Eileen's  in 
bed  long  those  brats'll  have  the  house  down. 

BILLY — Eileen  ain't  sick  very  bad,  is  she? 

CARMODY — [Easily.]  It's  a  cold  only  she  has. 
[Then  mournfully.]  Your  poor  mother  died  of  the 
same.  [BILLY  looks  awed]  Ara,  well,  it's  God's  will, 
I  suppose,  but  where  the  money'll  come  from,  I 
dunno.  [With  a  disparaging  glance  at  his  son.] 
They'll  not  be  raisin'  your  wages  soon,  I'll  be  bound. 

BILLY  [Surlily]  Naw.  The  old  boss  never  gives 
no  one  a  raise,  'less  he  has  to.  He's  a  tight- wad  for 
fair. 

CARMODY — [Still  scanning  him  with  contempt] 
Five  dollars  a  week — for  a  strappin*  lad  the  like  of 
you !  It's  shamed  you  should  be  to  own  up  to  it.  A 
divil  of  a  lot  of  good  it  was  for  me  to  go  against 
Eileen's  wish  and  let  you  leave  off  your  schoolin'  this 
year  like  you  wanted,  thinkin'  the  money  you'd  earn 
at  work  would  help  with  the  house. 

BILLY — Aw,  goin'  to  school  didn't  do  me  no  good. 
The  teachers  was  all  down  on  me.  I  couldn't  learn 
nothin*  there. 

CARMODY — [Disgustedly]  Nor  any  other  place, 
I'm  thinkin',  you're  that  thick.  [There  is  a  noise  from 
the  stairs  in  the  hall]  Whisht!  It's  the  doctor  corn- 
in'  down  from  Eileen.  What'll  he  say,  I  wonder? 


THE  STRAW  9 

[The  door  m  the  rear  is  opened  and  Doctor  Gaynor 
enters.  He  is  a  stout,  bald,  middle-aged  man,  force 
ful  of  speech,  who  in  the  case  of  patients  of  the  CAR- 
MODYS'  class  dictates  rather  than  advises.  CARMODY 
adopts  a  whmmg  tone.~\  Aw,  Doctor,  and  how's 
Eileen  now?  Have  you  got  her  cured  of  the  weakness? 

GAYNOR — [Does  not  answer  this  but  comes  for 
ward  into  the  room  holding  out  two  slips  of  paper — 
dictatoriallyj\  Here  are  two  prescriptions  that'll 
have  to  be  filled  immediately. 

CARMODY — [Frowning.']  You  take  them,  Billy, 
and  run  round  to  the  drug  store.  [GAYNOR  hands 
them  to  BILLY.] 

BILLY — Give  me  the  money,  then. 

CARMODY — [Reaches  down  into  his  pants  pocket 
with  a  sigh.'}  How  much  will  they  come  to,  Doctor? 

GAYNOR — About  a  dollar,  I  guess. 

CARMODY — \Protestmgly.~\  A  dollar!  Sure  it's 
expensive  medicines  you're  givin'  her  for  a  bit  of  a 
cold.  [He  meets  the  doctor's  cold  glance  of  con 
tempt  and  he  wilts — grumblingly,  as  he  peels  a  dollar 
bill  off  a  small  roll  and  gives  it  to  BILLY.]  Bring 
back  the  change — if  there  is  any.  And  none  of  your 
tricks,  for  I'll  stop  at  the  drug  store  myself  tomor 
row  and  ask  the  man  how  much  it  was. 

BILLY — Aw,  what  do  you  think  I  am?  [He  takes 
the  money  and  goes  out.'] 

CARMODY — [Grudgingly.']  Take  a  chair,  Doctor,, 
and  tell  me  what's  wrong  with  Eileen. 


10  THE  STRAW 

GAYNOR — [Seating  himself  by  the  table — 
gravely.]  Your  daughter  is  very  seriously  ill. 

CARMODY — [irritably.']  Aw,  Doctor,  didn't  I  know 
you'd  be  sayin'  that,  anyway ! 

GAYNOR — [Ignoring  this  remark — coldly.'}  Your 
daughter  has  tuberculosis  of  the  lungs. 

CARMODY — [With  puzzled  awe.]   Too-ber-c'losis? 

GAYNOR — Consumption,  if  that  makes  it  plainer 
to  you. 

CARMODY — [With  dazed  terror — after  a  pause.] 
Consumption?  Eileen?  [With  sudden  anger.]  What 
lie  is  it  you're  tellin'  me  ? 

GAYNOR — [Icily.]  Look  here,  Carmody !  I'm  not 
here  to  stand  for  your  insults ! 

CARMODY — [Bewilder edly]  Don't  be  angry,  now, 
at  what  I  said.  Sure  I'm  out  of  my  wits  entirely. 
Eileen  to  have  the  consumption !  Ah,  Doctor,  sure 
you  must  be  mistaken ! 

GAYNOR — There's  no  chance  for  a  mistake,  I'm 
sorry  to  say.  Her  right  lung  is  badly  affected. 

CARMODY — [Desperately.]  It's  a  bad  cold  only, 
maybe. 

GAYNOR — [Curtly]  Don't  talk  nonsense.  [CAR 
MODY  groans.  GAYNOR  continues  authoritatively.] 
She  will  have  to  go  to  a  sanatorium  at  once.  She 
ought  to  have  been  sent  to  one  months  ago.  The 
girl's  been  keeping  up  on  her  nerve  when  she  should 
have  been  in  bed,  and  it's  given  the  disease  a  chance 
to  develop.  [Casts  a  look  of  indignant  scorn'  at 
CARMODY  who  is  sitting  staring  at  the  floor  with  an 


THE  STRAW  11 

expression  of  angry  stupor  on  his  face.]  It's  a  won 
der  to  me  you  didn't  see  the  condition  she  was  in 
and  force  her  to  take  care  of  herself.  Why,  the 
girl's  nothing  but  skin  and  bone ! 

CARMODY — [With  vague  fury.]  God  blast  it! 

GAYNOR — No,  your  kind  never  realizes  things  till 
the  crash  comes — usually  when  it's  too  late.  She 
kept  on  doing  her  work,  I  suppose — taking  care  of 
her  brothers  and  sisters,  washing,  cooking,  sweep 
ing,  looking  after  your  comfort — worn  out — when 
she  should  have  been  in  bed — and —  [He  gets  to  his 
•feet  with  a  harsh  laugh.']  But  what's  the  use  of  talk 
ing?  The  damage  is  done.  We've  got  to  set  to  work 
to  repair  it  at  once.  I'll  write  tonight  to  Dr.  Stan- 
ton  of  the  Hill  Farm  Sanatorium  and  find  out  if  he 
has  a  vacancy.  And  if  luck  is  with  us  we  can  send 
her  there  at  once.  The  sooner  the  better. 

CARMODY — [His  face  growing  red  with  rage.~\ 
Is  it  sendin'  Eileen  away  to  a  hospital  you'd  be? 
[Exploding.]  Then  you'll  not!  You'll  get  that 
notion  out  of  your  head  damn  quick.  It's  all  nonsense 
you're  stuffin'  me  with,  and  lies,  makin'  things  out 
to  be  the  worst  in  the  world.  I'll  not  believe  a  word 
of  Eileen  having  the  consumption  at  all.  It's  doc 
tors'  notions  to  be  always  lookin'  for  a  sickness 
that'd  kill  you.  She'll  not  move  a  step  out  of  here, 
and  I  say  so,  and  I'm  her  father! 

GAYNOR — [Who  has  been  staring  at  him  with 
contempt — coldly  angry.]  You  refuse  to  let  your 
daughter  go  to  a  sanatorium? 


IS  THE  STRAW 

CARMODY — I  do. 

GAYNOR — [Threateningly.']  Then  I'll  have  to  re 
port  her  case  to  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Tuberculosis  of  this  county,  and  tell  them  of  your 
refusal  to  help  her. 

CARMODY — [Wavering  a  bit.]  Report  all  you  like, 
and  be  damned  to  you ! 

GAYNOR — [Ignoring  the  interruption — impres 
sively.]  A  majority  of  the  most  influential  men  of 
this  city  are  back  of  the  Society.  Do  you  know  that  ? 
[Grimly.]  We'll  find  a  way  to  move  you,  Carmody, 
if  you  try  to  be  stubborn. 

CARMODY — [Thoroughly  frightened  but  still  pro 
testing.]  Ara,  Doctor,  you  don't  see  the  way  of  it  at 
all.  If  Eileen  goes  to  the  hospital,  who's  to  be  takin' 
care  of  the  others,  and  mindin'  the  house  when  I'm 
off  to  work? 

GAYNOR- — You  can  easily  hire  some  woman. 

CARMODY — [At  once  furious  again.]  Hire?  D' 
you  think  I'm  a  millionaire  itself? 

GAYNOR — [Contemptuously.]  That's  where  the 
shoe  pinches,  eh?  [In  a  rage.]  I'm  not  going  to  waste 
any  more  words  on  you,  Carmody,  but  I'm  damn 
well  going  to  see  this  thing  through !  You  might  as 
well  give  in  first  as  last. 

CARMODY — [Wailing.]  But  where's  the  money 
comin'  from? 

GAYNOR — [Brutally.]  That's  your  concern.  Don't 
lie  about  your  poverty.  You've  a  steady  well  paid 
job,  and  plenty  of  money  to  throw  away  on  drunken 


THE  STRAW  13 

sprees,  I'll  bet.  The  weekly  fee  at  the  Hill  Farm  is 
only  seven  dollars.  You  can  easily  afford  that — 
the  price  of  a  few  rounds  of  drinks. 

CARMODY — Seven  dollars !  And  I'll  have  to  pay  a 
woman  to  come  in — and  the  four  of  the  children 
eatin'  their  heads  off !  Glory  be  to  God,  I'll  not  have 
a  penny  saved  for  me  old  age — and  then  it's  the 
poor  house! 

GAYNOR — [Curtly. ]     Don't  talk  nonsense! 

CARMODY — Ah,  doctor,  it's  the  truth  I'm  tellin' 
you! 

GAYNOR — Well,  perhaps  I  can  get  the  Society  to 
pay  half  for  your  daughter — if  you're  really  as  hard 
up  as  you  pretend.  They're  willing  to  do  that  where 
it  seems  necessary. 

CARMODY — [Brightening.]  Ah,  Doctor,  thank 
you. 

GAYNOR — [Abruptly.}  Then  it's  all  settled? 

CARMODY — [Grudgingly — trying  to  make  the 
best  of  it.]  I'll  do  my  best  for  Eileen,  if  it's  needful 
— and  you'll  not  be  tellin'  them  people  about  it  at 
all,  Doctor? 

GAYNOR — Not  unless  you  force  me  to. 

CARMODY — And  they'll  pay  the  half,  surely? 

GAYNOR — I'll  see  what  I  can  do — for  your  daugh 
ter's  sake,  not  yours,  understand! 

CARMODY — God  bless  you,  Doctor!  [Grumb- 
lingly.]  It's  the  whole  of  it  they  ought  to  be  payin', 
I'm  thinkin',  and  them  with  sloos  of  money.  'Tis 


14  THE  STRAW 

them  builds  the  hospitals  and  why  should  they  be 
wantin'  the  poor  like  me  to  support  them  ? 

GAYNOR — [Disgustedly.']  Bah!  [Abruptly.']  I'll 
telephone  to  Doctor  Stanton  tomorrow  morning. 
Then  I'll  know  something  definite  when  I  come  to 
see  your  daughter  in  the  afternoon. 

CARMODY — [Darkly. ~]  You'll  be  comin'  again  to 
morrow?  [Half  to  himself.]  Leave  it  to  the  likes 
of  you  to  be  drainin'  a  man  dry.  [GAYNOR  has  gone 
out  to  the  hall  in  rear  and  does  not  hear  this  last 
remark.  There  is  a  loud  knock  from  the  outside 
door.  The  Doctor  comes  back  into  the  room  carry 
ing  his  hat  and  overcoat.] 

GAYNOR — There's  someone  knocking. 

CARMODY— Who'll  it  be?  Ah,  it's  Fred  Nicholls, 
maybe.  [In  a  low  voice  to  GAYNOR  who  has  started 
to  put  on  his  overcoat.]  Eileen's  young  man,  Doc 
tor,  that  she's  engaged  to  marry,  as  you  might  say. 

GAYNOR — [Thoughtfully.]  Hmm  —  yes  —  she 
spoke  of  him.  [As  another  knock  sounds  CARMODY 
hurries  to  the  rear.  GAYNOR,  after  a  moment's  in 
decision,  takes  off  his  overcoat  again  and  sits  down. 
A  moment  later  CARMODY  re-enters  followed  by 
FRED  NICHOLLS,  who  has  left  his  overcoat  and  hat 
m  the  hallway.  NICHOLLS  is  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty-three,  stockily  built,  fair-haired,  handsome  wt 
a  commonplace,  conventional  mould.  His  manner  is 
obviously  an  attempt  at  suave  gentility;  lie  has  an 
easy,  taking  smile  and  a  ready  laugh,  but  there  is  a 
petty,  calculating  expression  in  his  small,  observing, 


THE  STRAW  15 

blue  eyes.  His  well-fitting,  ready  made  clothes  are 
carefully  pressed.  His  whole  get-up  suggests  an  at 
titude  of  man-about-small-town  complacency.] 

CARMODY — [As  they  enter.]  I  had  a  mind  to 
phone  to  your  house  but  I  wasn't  wishful  to  disturb 
you,  knowin'  you'd  be  comin'  to  call  tonight. 

NICHOLAS — [With  disappointed  concern.]  It's 
nothing  serious,  I  hope. 

CARMODY — [Grumblingly.]  Ah,  who  knows? 
Here's  the  doctor.  You've  not  met  him? 

NICHOLLS — [Politely,  looking  at  GAYNOR  who  in 
clines  his  head  stiffly.]  I  haven't  had  the  pleasure. 
Of  course  I've  heard 

CARMODY — It's  Doctor  Gaynor.  This  is  Fred 
Nicholls,  Doctor.  [The  two  men  shake  hands  with 
conventional  pleased-to-meet-yous]  Sit  down,  Fred, 
that's  a  good  lad,  and  be  talkin'  to  the  Doctor  a 
moment  while  I  go  upstairs  and  see  how  is  Eileen. 
She's  all  alone  up  there. 

NICHOLLS — Certainly,  Mr.  Carmody.  Go  ahead 
— and  tell  her  how  sorry  I  am  to  learn  she's  under 
the  weather. 

CARMODY — I  will  so.    [He  goes  out] 

GAYNOR — [After  a  pause  in  which  he  is  studying 
NICHOLLS.]  Do  you  happen  to  be  any  relative  to 
the  Albert  Nicholls  who  is  superintendent  over  at  the 
Downs  Manufacturing  Company? 

NICHOLLS — [Smiling]  He's  sort  of  a  near  rela 
tive — my  father. 

GAYNOR — Ah,  yes? 


16  THE  STRAW 

NICHOLLS — [With  satisfaction.]  I  work  for  the 
Downs  Company  myself — bookkeeper — 

GAYNOR — Miss  Carmody — the  sick  girl  upstairs — 
she  had  a  position  there  also,  didn't  she,  before  her 
mother  died? 

NICHOI/LS — Yes.  She  had  a  job  as  stenographer 
for  a  time.  When  she  graduated  from  the  business 
college  course — I  was  already  working  at  the  Downs 
— and  through  my  father's  influence — you  under 
stand.  [GAYNOR  nods  curtly.]  She  was  getting  on 
finely,  too,  and  liked  the  work.  It's  too  bad — her 
mother's  death,  I  mean — forcing  her  to  give  it  up 
and  come  home  to  take  care  of  those  kids. 

GAYNOR — It's  a  damn  shame.  That's  the  main 
cause  of  her  breakdown. 

NICHOI/LS — [Frowning.]  I've  noticed  she's  been 
looking  badly  lately.  So  that's  the  trouble?  Well, 
it's  all  her  father's  fault — and  her  own,  too,  be 
cause  whenever  I  raised  a  kick  about  his  making 
a  slave  of  her,  she  always  defended  him.  [With  a 
quick  glance  at  the  Doctor — in  a  confidential  tone.] 
Between  us,  Carmody 's  as  selfish  as  they  make  'em.  if 
you  want  my  opinion. 

GAYNOR — [With  a  growl.]  He's  a  hog  on  two 
legs. 

NICHOI/LS — [With  a  gratified  smile.]  You  bet! 
[With  a  patronizing  air.]  I  hope  to  get  Eileen  away 
from  all  this  as  soon  as — things  pick  up  a  little. 
[Making  haste  to  explain  his  connection  with  the 
dubious  household.]  Eileen  and  I  have  gone  around 


THE  STRAW  17 

together  for  years — went  to  Grammar  and  High 
School  together — in  different  classes,  of  course. 
She's  really  a  corker — very  different  from  the  rest 
of  the  family  you've  seen — like  her  mother.  She's 
really  educated  and  knows  a  lot — used  to  carry  off 
all  the  prizes  at  school.  My  folks  like  her  awfully 
well.  Of  course,  they'd  never  stand  for — him. 

GAYNOR — You'll  excuse  my  curiosity — I've  a  good 
reason  for  it — but  you  and  Miss  Carmody  are  en 
gaged,  aren't  you?  Carmody  said  you  were. 

NICHOLAS — [Embarrassed.']  Why,  yes,  in  a  way 
— but  nothing  definite — no  official  announcement  or 
anything  of  that  kind.  It's  all  in  the  future.  We 
have  to  wait,  you  know.  [With  a  sentimental  smile.] 
We've  been  sort  of  engaged  for  years,  you  might 
say.  It's  always  been  sort  of  understood  between  us. 
[He  laughs  awkwardly.] 

GAYNOR — [Gravely.]  Then  I  can  be  frank  with 
you.  I'd  like  to  be  because  I  may  need  your  help. 
I  don't  put  much  faith  in  any  promise  Carmody 
makes.  Besides,  you're  bound  to  know  anyway. 
She'd  tell  you. 

NICHOLAS — [A  look  of  apprehension  coming  over 
his  face.]  Is  it — about  her  sickness? 

GAYNOR — Yes. 

NICHOLJLS — Then — it's  serious? 

GAYNOR — It's  pulmonary  tuberculosis — consump 
tion. 

NICHOLAS — [Stunned.]        Consumption?        Good 


18  THE  STRAW 

heavens!  [After  a  dazed  pause  —  lamely.  ~\  Are  you 
sure,  Doctor? 

GAYNOR  —  Positive.  [NICHOLAS  stares  at  him  with 
vaguely  frightened  eyes.]  It's  had  a  good  start  — 
thanks  to  her  father's  blind  selfishness  —  but  let's 
hope  that  can  be  overcome.  The  important  thing 
is  to  ship  her  off  to  a  sanatorium  immediately.  Car- 
mody  wouldn't  hear  of  it  at  first.  However,  I  man 
aged  to  bully  him  into  consenting  ;  but  I  don't  trust 
his  word.  That's  where  you  can  be  of  help.  It's 
up  to  you  to  convince  him  that  it's  imperative  she 
be  sent  away  at  once  —  for  the  safety  of  those  around 
her  as  well  as  her  own. 

NICHOKLS  —  [Confusedly.]  I'll  do  my  best,  doctor. 
[As  if  he  couldn't  yet  believe  his  ears  —  shuddering.] 
Good  heavens  !  She  never  said  a  word  about  —  being 
so  ill.  She's  had  a  cold.  But,  Doctor,  —  do  you 
think  this  sanatorium  will  -  ? 


GAYNOR  —  [TFi£/i  hearty  hopefulness.]  Most  cer 
tainly.  She  has  every  chance.  The  Hill  Farm  has 
a  really  surprising  record  of  arrested  cases  —  as  good 
as  any  place  in  the  country.  Of  course,  she'll  never 
be  able  to  live  as  carelessly  as  before,  even  after  the 
most  favorable  results.  She'll  have  to  take  care  of 
herself.  [Apologetically.]  I'm  telling  you  all  this 
as  being  the  one  most  intimately  concerned.  I  don't 
count  Carmody.  You  are  the  one  who  will  have  to 
assume  responsibility  for  her  welfare  when  she  re 
turns  to  everyday  life. 

NICHOLAS  —  [Answering  as  if  he  were  merely  talk- 


THE  STRAW  19 

ing  to  screen  the  thoughts  m  his  mind.]  Yes — cer 
tainly — .  Where  is  this  sanatorium,  Doctor — very 
far  away? 

GAYNOR — Half  an  hour  by  train  to  the  town.  The 
sanatorium  is  two  miles  out  on  the  hills — a  nice 
drive.  You'll  be  able  to  see  her  whenever  you've  a 
day  off.  It's  a  pleasant  trip. 

NICHOLAS — [A   look  of  horrified  realization  has 
been    creeping   into   his    eyes.~\     You    said — Eileen 
ought  to  be  sent  away — for  the  sake  of  those  around 
her ? 

GAYNOR — That's  obvious.  T.  B.  is  extremely  con 
tagious,  you  must  know  that.  Yet  I'll  bet  she's  been 
fondling  and  kissing  those  brothers  and  sisters  of 
hers  regardless.  [NICHOKLS  fidgets  uneasily  on  his 
chair. ]  And  look  at  this  house  sealed  tight  against 
the  fresh  air!  Not  a  window  open  an  inch!  [Fum 
ing.]  That's  what  we're  up  against  in  the  fight  with 
T.B. — a  total  ignorance  of  the  commonest  methods 
of  prevention 

NICHOLLS — [His  eyes  shiftily  avoiding  the  doc 
tor's  face.]  Then  the  kids  might  have  gotten  it — by 
kissing  Eileen? 

GAYNOR — It  stands  to  reason  that's  a  common 
means  of  communication. 

NICHOI/LS — [Very  much  shaken.]  Yes.  I  suppose 
it  must  be.  But  that's  terrible,  isn't  it?  [With  sud 
den  volubility,  evidently  extremely  anxious  to  wmd 
up  this  conversation  and  conceal  his  thoughts  from 
GAYNOR.]  I'll  promise  you,  Doctor,  I'll  tell  Car- 


20  THE  STRAW 

mody  straight  what's  what.  He'll  pay  attention  to 
me  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why. 

GAYNOR — [Getting  to  his  feet  and  picking  up  his 
overcoat.]  Good  boy!  You've  probably  saved  me  a 
disagreeable  squabble.  I  won't  wait  for  Carmody. 
The  sight  of  him  makes  me  lose  my  temper.  Tell 
him  I'll  be  back  tomorrow  with  definite  information 
about  the  sanatorium. 

NICHOLAS — [Helping  him  on  with  his  overcoat, 
anxious  to  have  him  go.~\  All  right,  Doctor. 

GAYNOR — [Puts  on  his  hat.~]  And  do  your  best  to 
cheer  the  patient  up  when  you  talk  to  her.  Give  her 
confidence  in  her  ability  to  get  well.  That's  half  the 
battle.  And  she'll  believe  it,  coming  from  you. 

NICHOLAS — [Hastily.']    Yes,  yes,  I'll  do  all  I  can. 

GAYNOR — [Turns  to  the  door  and  shakes 
NICHOLAS'  hand  sympathetically.]  And  don't  take 
it  to  heart  too  much  yourself.  There's  every  hope, 
remember  that.  In  six  months  she'll  come  back  to 
you  her  old  self  again. 

NICHOLAS — [Nervously.]  It's  hard  on  a  fellow — 
so  suddenly — but  I'll  remember — arid — [abruptly] 
Good-night,  Doctor. 

GAYNOR — Good-night.  [He  goes  out.  The  outer 
door  is  heard  shutting  behind  him.  NICHOLAS  closes 
the  door,  rear,  and  comes  back  and  sits  in  the  chair 
in  front  of  table.  He  rests  his  chin  on  his  hands  and 
stares  before  him,  a  look  of  desperate,  frightened 
calculation  coming  into  his  eyes.  CARMODY  is 
heard  clumping  heavily  down  the  stairs.  A  moment 


THE  STRAW  21 

later  lie  enters.  His  expression  is  glum  and  ir 
ritated.] 

CARMODY — [Coming  forward  to  his  chair  by  the 
stove.]  Has  he  gone  away? 

NICHOLLS — [Turning  on  him  with  a  look  of  re 
pulsion.]  Yes.  He  said  to  tell  you  he'd  be  back  to 
morrow  with  definite  information — about  the  sana 
torium  business. 

CARMODY — [Darkly.]  Oho,  he  did,  did  he? 
Maybe  1*11  surprise  him.  I'm  thinkin'  it's  lyin'  he 
is  about  Eileen's  sickness,  and  her  lookin'  as  fresh 
as  a  daisy  with  the  high  color  in  her  cheeks  when 
I  saw  her  now. 

NICHOLAS — [Impatient ly.  ]  That's  silly,  Mr.  Car- 
mody.  Gaynor  knows  his  business.  [After  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation.]  He  told  me  all  about  Eileen's 
sickness. 

CARMODY — [Resentfully.]  Did  he  now,  the  auld 
monkey !  Small  thanks  to  him  to  be  tellin'  our  secrets 
to  the  town. 

NICHOLLS — [Exasperated.]  I  didn't  want  to 
learn  your  affairs.  He  only  told  me  because  you'd 
said  I  and  Eileen  were  engaged.  You're  the  one  who 
was  telling — secrets. 

CARMODY — [Irritated.]  Ara,  don't  be  talkin'! 
That's  no  secret  at  all  with  the  whole  town  watchin' 
Eileen  and  you  spoonin'  together  from  the  time  you 
was  kids. 

NICHOLAS — [Vindictively.]  Well,  the  whole  town 
is  liable  to  find  out .  [He  checks  himself.] 


22  THE  STRAW 

CARMODY — [Too  absorbed  in  his  own  troubles  to 
notice  this  threat.]  To  hell  with  the  town  and  all 
in  it !  I've  troubles  enough  of  my  own.  So  he  told 
you  he'd  send  Eileen  away  to  the  hospital?  I've  half 
a  mind  not  to  let  him — and  let  him  try  to  make  me ! 
[With  a  frown.]  But  Eileen  herself  says  she's 
wantin*  to  go,  now.  [Angrily.]  It's  all  that 
divil's  notion  he  put  in  her  head  that  the  children'd 
be  catchin'  her  sickness  that  makes  her  willin'  to  go. 

NICHOLAS — [With  a  superior  air.]  From  what  he 
told  me,  I  should  say  it  was  the  only  thing  for 
Eileen  to  do  if  she  wants  to  get  well  quickly.  [Spite 
fully.]  And  I'd  certainly  not  go  against  Gaynor, 
if  I  was  you.  He  told  me  he'd  make  it  hot  for  you 
if  you  did.  He  will,  too,  you  can  bet  on  that.  He's 
that  kind. 

CARMODY — [Worriedly.]  He's  a  divil.  But  what 
can  he  do — him  and  his  Sasiety?  I'm  her  father. 

NICHOLAS — [Seeing  CARMODY'S  uneasiness  with 
revengeful  satisfaction.]  Oh,  he'll  do  what  he  says, 
don't  worry !  You'll  make  a  mistake  if  you  think 
he's  bluffing.  It'd  probably  get  in  all  the  papers 
about  you  refusing.  Everyone  would  be  down  on 
you.  [As  a  last  jab — spitefully.]  You  might  even 
lose  your  job  over  it,  people  would  be  so  sore. 

CARMODY — [Jumping  to  his  feet.]  Ah,  divil  take 
him !  Let  him  send  her  where  he  wants,  then.  I'll 
not  be  sayin'  a  word. 

NICHOLAS — [As  an  afterthought.]  And,  honestly, 
Mr.  Carmody,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  object  for  a 


THE  STRAW  23 

second — after  he's  told  you  it's  absolutely  necessary 
for  Eileen  to  go  away.  [Seeing  CARMODY'S  shaken 
condition,  he  finishes  boldly.]  You've  some  feeling 
for  your  own  daughter,  haven't  you?  You'd  be  a 
fine  father  if  you  hadn't ! 

CARMODY — [Apprehensively.]  Whisht!  She  might 
hear  you.  But  you're  right.  Let  her  do  what  she's 
wishful  to  get  well  soon. 

NICHOLAS — [Complacently — feeling  his  duty  in 
the  matter  well  done.]  That's  the  right  spirit.  I 
knew  you'd  see  it  that  way.  And  you  and  I'll  do 
all  we  can  to  help  her.  [He  gets  to  his  feet.]  Well, 
I  guess  I'll  have  to  go.  Tell  Eileen 

CARMODY — You're  not  goin'?  Sure,  Eileen  is 
puttin'  on  her  clothes  to  come  down  and  have  a  look 
at  you.  She'll  be  here  in  a  jiffy.  Sit  down  now,  and 
wait  for  her. 

NICHOLAS — [Suddenly  panic-stricken  by  the 
prospect  of  facing  her]  No — no — I  can't  stay — I 
only  came  for  a  moment — I've  got  an  appointment 
— honestly.  Besides,  it  isn't  right  for  her  to  be  up. 
She's  too  weak.  It'll  make  her  worse.  You  should 
have  told -her.  [The  door  in  the  rear  is  opened  and 
EILEEN  enters.  She  is  just  over  eighteen.  Her  wavy 
mass  of  dark  hair  is  parted  in  the  middle  and  combed 
low  on  her  forehead,  covering  her  ears,  to  a  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  The  oval  of  her  face  is  spoiled 
by  a  long,  rather  heavy,  Irish  jaw  contrasting  with 
the  delicacy  of  her  other  features.  Her  eyes  are 
large  and  blue,  confident  in  their  compelling  candor 


24s  THE  STRAW 

and  sweetness;  her  lips,  full  and  red,  half -open  over 
strong  even  teeth,  droop  at  the  corners  into  an  ex 
pression  of  wistful  sadness;  her  clear  complexion  is 
unnaturally  striking  in  its  contrasting  colors,  rose 
and  white;  her  figure  is  slight  and  undeveloped.  She 
wears  a  plain  black  dress  with  a  bit  of  white  at  the 
neck  and  wrists.  She  stands  looking  appealmgly  at 
NICHOLAS  who  avoids  her  glance.  Her  eyes  have  a 
startled,  stunned  expression  as  if  the  doctor's  verdict 
were  still  in  her  ears.] 

EILEEN — [Faintly — forcing  a  smile.  ]  Good- 
evening,  Fred.  [Her  eyes  search  his  face 
anxiously.] 

NICHOLAS — [Confusedly.]  Hello,  Eileen.  I'm  so 
sorry  to .  [Clumsily  trymg  to  cover  up  his  con 
fusion,  he  goes  over  and  leads  her  to  a  chair.]  You 
must  sit  down.  You've  got  to  take  care  of  yourself. 
You  never  ought  to  have  gotten  up  tonight. 

EILEEN — [Sits  down]  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you* 
[She  raises  her  face  with  a  pitiful  smile.  NICHOLLS 
hurriedly  moves  back  to  his  own  chair] 

NICHOLLS — [Almost  brusquely]  I  could  have 
talked  to  you  from  the  hall.  You're  silly  to  take 
chances  just  now.  [EILEEN'S  eyes  show  her  hurt  at 
his  tone] 

CARMODY — [Seeing  his  chance — hastily]  You'll 
be  stayin'  a  while  now,  Fred?  I'll  take  a  walk  down 
the  road.  I'm  needin'  a  drink  to  clear  my  wits.  [He 
goes  to  the  door  in  rear] 


THE  STRAW  25 

EILEEN — [Reproachfully.]  You  won't  be  long, 
father?  And  please  don't — you  know. 

CARMODY — [Exasperated.]  Sure  who  wouldn't 
get  drunk  with  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world  piled 
on  him?  [He  stamps  out.  A  moment  later  the 
outside  v  door  bangs  behind  him.  EILEEN  sighs. 
NICHOLLS  walks  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on  the 
floor.] 

NICHOLLS — [Furious  at  CARMODY  for  having  left 
him  in  this  situation]  Honestly,  Eileen,  your  father 
is  the  limit.  I  don't  see  how  you  stand  for  him.  He's 
the  most  selfish 

EILEEN — [Gently.]  Sssh!  You  mustn't,  Fred.  He's 
not  to  blame.  He  just  doesn't  understand. 
[NICHOLLS  snorts  disdainfully.]  Don't!  Let's  not 
talk  about  him  now.  We  won't  have  many  more 
evenings  together  for  a  long,  long  time.  Did  Father 
or  the  Doctor  tell  you [She  falters.] 

NICHOLLS — [Not  looking  at  her — glumly]  Every 
thing  there  was  to  tell,  I  guess. 

EILEEN — [Hastening  to  comfort  him]  You 
mustn't  worry,  Fred.  Please  don't !  It'd  make  it  so 
much  worse  for  me  if  I  thought  you  did.  I'll  be  all 
right.  I'll  do  exactly  what  they  tell  me,  and  in  a  few 
months  I'll  be  back  so  fat  and  healthy  you  won't 
know  me. 

NICHOLLS — [Lamely]  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  of 
that.  No  one's  worrying  about  your  not  getting  well 
quick. 

EILEEN — It  won't  be  long.    We  can  write  often, 


26  THE  STRAW 

and  it  isn't  far  away.  You  can  come  out  and  see  me 
every  Sunday — if  you  want  to. 

NICHOLLS — [Hastily.']    Of  course  I  will! 

EILEEN — [Looking  at  his  face  searchingly.  ]  Why 
do  you  act  so  funny?  Why  don't  you  sit  down — 
here,  by  me?  Don't  you  want  to? 

NICHOLAS — [Drawing  up  a  chair  by  hers — 
flushing  guiltily.]  I — I'm  all  bawled  up,  Eileen.  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  doing. 

EILEEN — [Putting  her  hand  on  his  Jcnee.~\  Poor 
Fred !  I'm  so  sorry  I  have  to  go.  I  didn't  want  to 
at  first.  I  knew  how  hard  it  would  be  on  Father  and 
the  kids — especially  little  Mary.  [Her  voice  trembles 
a  bit.]  And  then  the  doctor  said  if  I  stayed  I'd  be 
putting  them  all  in  danger.  He  even  ordered  me 
not  to  kiss  them  any  more.  [She  bites  her  lips  to  re 
strain  a  sob — then  coughs,  a  soft,  husky  cough. 
NICHOLLS  shrinks  away  from  her  to  the  edge  of  his 
chair,  his  eyes  shifting  nervously  with  fright.  EILEEN 
continues  gently]  So  I've  got  to  go  and  get  well, 
don't  you  see? 

NICHOLLS — [Wetting  his  dry  lips]  Yes — it's 
better. 

EILEEN — [Sadly]  I'll  miss  the  kids  so  much. 
Taking  care  of  them  has  meant  so  much  to  me  since 
Mother  died.  [With  a  half -sob  she  suddenly  throws 
her  arms  about  his  neck  and  hides  her  face  on  his 
shoulder.  He  shudders  and  fights  against  an  impulse 
to  push  her  away]  But  I'll  miss  you  most  of  all, 
Fred.  [She  lifts  her  lips  towards  his,  expecting  a 


THE  STRAW  27 

kiss.  He  seems  about  to  kiss  her — then  averts  his 
face  with  a  shrinking  movement,  pretending  he  hasn't 
seen.  EILEEN'S  eyes  grow  wide  with  horror.  She 
throws  herself  back  into  her  own  chair,  staring  ac 
cusingly  at  NICHOLAS.  She  speaks  chokingly.] 
Fred!  Why — why  didn't  you  kiss — what  is  it?  Are 
you — afraid?  [With  a  moaning  sound.]  Oooh! 

NICHOLAS — [Goaded  by  this  accusation  into  a  dis 
play  of  manhood,  seizes  her  fiercely  by  the  arms.~\ 
No!  What — what  d'you  mean?  [He  tries  to  kiss 
her  but  she  hides  her  face."] 

EILEEN — [In  a  muffled  voice  of  hysterical  self- 
accusation,  pushing  his  head  away.]  No,  no,  you 
mustn't !  I  was  wrong.  The  doctor  told  you  not  to, 
didn't  he?  Please  don't,  Fred!  It  would  be  aw 
ful  if  anything  happened  to  you — through  me. 
[NICHOLLS  gives  up  his  attempts,  recalled  to  caution 
by  her  words.  She  raises  her  face  and  tries  to  force 
a  smile  through  her  tears.]  But  you  can  kiss  me  on 
the  forehead,  Fred.  That  can't  do  any  harm.  [His 
face  crimson,  he  does  so.  She  laughs  hysterically.] 
It  seems  so  silly — being  kissed  that  way — by  you. 
[She  gulps  back  a  sob  and  continued  to  attempt  to 
joke.]  I'll  have  to  get  used  to  it,  won't  I? 

[Curtain  Falls.] 


ACT  I 

SCENE  TWO 

SCENE — The  reception  room  of  the  Infirmary,  a 
large,  high-ceilinged  room  painted  white,  with 
oiled,  hardwood  floor.  In  the  left  wall,  forward, 
a  row  of  four  windows.  Farther  back,  the  main 
entrance  from  the  driveway,  and  another 
window.  In  the  rear  wall  left,  a  glass  partition 
looking  out  on  the  sleeping  porch.  A  row  of 
white  beds,  with  the  faces  of  patients  barely 
peeping  out  from  under  piles  of  heavy  bed- 
clothes,  can  be  seen.  To  the  right  of  this  parti 
tion,  a  bookcase,  and  a  door  leading  to  the  hall 
past  the  patients9  rooms.  Farther  right,  an 
other  door  opening  on  the  examining  room.  In 
the  right  wall,  rear,  a  door  to  the  office.  Farther 
forward,  a  row  of  windows.  In  front  of  the 
windows,  a  long  dining  table  with  chairs.  On 
the  left  of  the  table,  toward  the  center  of  the 
room,  a  chimney  with  two  open  fireplaces,  facing 
left  and  right.  Several  wicker  armchairs  are 
placed  around  the  fireplace  on  the  left  in  which 
a  cheerful  wood  fire  is  crackling.  To  the  left  of 


THE  STRAW  29 

center,  a  round  reading  and  writing  table  with 
a  green-shaded  electric  lamp.  Other  electric 
lights  are  in  brackets  around  the  walls.  Easy 
chairs  stand  near  the  table  which  is  stacked 
with  magazines.  Rocking  chairs  are  placed  here 
and  there  about  the  room,  near  the  windows,  etc. 
A  Victrola  stands  near  the  left  wall,  forward. 

It  is  nearing  eight  o9  clock  of  a  cold  evening 
about  a  week  later. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  STEPHEN  MURRAY 
is  discovered  sitting  in  a  chair  in  front  of  the 
fireplace,  left.  MURRAY  is  thirty  years  old — a 
tall,  slender,  rather  unusual  looking  fellow  with 
a  pale  face,  sunken  under  high  cheek  bones, 
lined  about  the  eyes  and  mouth,  jaded  and  worn 
for  one  still  so  young.  His  intelligent,  large 
hazel  eyes  have  a  tired,  dispirited  expression  in 
repose,  but  can  quicken  instantly  with  a  con 
cealment  mechanism  of  mocking,  careless  humor 
whenever  his  inner  privacy  is  threatened.  His 
large  mouth  aids  this  process  of  protection 
by  a  quick  change  from  its  set  apathy  to  a 
cheerful  grin  of  cynical  good  nature.  He  gives 
off  the  impression  of  being  somehow  dissatisfied 
with  himself  but  not  yet  embittered  enough  by 
it  to  take  it  out  on  others.  His  manner,  as  re 
vealed  by  his  speech — nervous,  inquisitive,  alert 
— seems  more  an  acquired  quality  than  any  part 
of  his  real  nature.  He  stoops  a  trifle,  giving 
him  a  slightly  round-shouldered  appearance. 


30  THE  STRAW 

He  is  dressed  in  a  shabby  dark  suit,  baggy  at 
the  knees.  He  is  staring  into  the  fire,  dreaming, 
an  open  book  lying  unheeded  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  The  Victrola  is  whining  out  the  last 
strains  of  Dvorak's  Humor esque.  In  the  door 
way  to  the  office,  Miss  Gilpin  stands  talking  to 
Miss  Howard.  The  former  is  a  slight,  middle- 
aged  woman  with  black  hair,  and  a  strong,  in 
telligent  face,  its  expression  of  resolute  effi 
ciency  softened  and  made  kindly  by  her  warm, 
sympathetic  grey  eyes.  Miss  Howard  is  tall, 
slender  and  blond — decidedly  pretty  and  pro- 
vokingly  conscious  of  it,  yet  with  a  certain  air 
of  seriousness  underlying  her  apparent  frivol 
ity.  She  is  twenty  years  old.  The  elder  woman 
is  dressed  in  the  all  white  of  a  full-fledged  nurse. 
Miss  Howard  wears  the  grey-blue  uniform  of 
one  still  in  training.  The  record  peters  out. 
MURRAY  signs  with  relief  but  makes  no  move  to 
get  up  and  stop  the  grinding  needle.  Miss 
HOWARD  hurries  across  to  the  machine.  Miss 
GILPIN  goes  back  into  the  office. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Takes  off  the  record,  glancing 
at  MURRAY  with  amused  vexation.]  It's  a  wonder 
you  wouldn't  stop  this  machine  grinding  itself  to 
bits,  Mr.  Murray. 

MURRAY — [With  a  smile.  ]  I  was  hoping  the  darn 
thing  would  bust.  [Miss  HOWARD  sniffs.  MURRAY 


THE  STRAW  31 

grins  at  her  teasingly.]    It  keeps  you  from  talking 
to  me.     That's  the  real  music. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Comes  over  to  his  chair  laugh 
ing.]  It's  easy  to  see  you've  got  Irish  in  you.  Do 
you  know  what  I  think?  I  think  you're  a  natural 
born  kidder.  All  newspaper  reporters  are  like  that, 
I've  heard. 

MURRAY — You  wrong  me  terribly.  [Then  frown 
ing.]  And  it  isn't  charitable  to  remind  me  of  my 
job.  I  hoped  to  forget  all  about  it  up  here. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Surprised.]  I  think  it's  great 
to  be  able  to  write.  I  wish  I  could.  You  ought  to 
be  proud  of  it. 

MURRAY — [Glumly.]  I'm  not.  You  can't  call  it 
writing — not  what  I  did — small  town  stuff.  [Chang 
ing  the  subject.]  But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  some 
thing.  Do  you  know  when  I'm  to  be  moved  away  to 
the  shacks? 

Miss  HOWARD — In  a  few  days,  I  guess.  Don't  be 
impatient.  [MURRAY  grunts  and  moves  nervously  on 
his  chair. ]  What's  the  matter?  Don't  you  like  us 
here  at  the  Infirmary? 

MURRAY — [Smiling.]  Oh — you — yes!  [Then  ser 
iously.]  I  don't  care  for  the  atmosphere,  though. 
[He  waves  his  hand  toward  the  partition  looking  out 
on  the  porch.]  All  those  people  in  bed  out  there  on 
the  porch  seem  so  sick.  It's  depressing.  I  can't 
do  anything  for  them — and — it  makes  me  feel  so 
helpless. 

Miss  HOWARD — Well,  it's  the  rules,  you  know.  All 


32  THE  STRAW 

the  patients  have  to  come  here  first  until  Doctor 
Stanton  finds  out  whether  they're  well  enough  to  be 
sent  out  to  the  shacks  and  cottages.  And  remember 
you're  a  patient  just  like  the  ones  in  bed  out  there — 
even  if  you  are  up  and  about. 

MURRAY — I  know  it.  But  I  don't  feel  as  I  were 
— really  sick  like  them. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Wisely. ~\  None  of  them  do, 
either. 

MURRAY — [After  a  moment's  reflection — cyni 
cally.'}  Yes,  I  suppose  it's  that  pipe  dream  that 
keeps  us  all  going,  eh? 

Miss  HOWARD — Well,  you  ought  to  be  thankful. 
You're  very  lucky,  if  you  knew  it.  [Lowering  her 
voice.]  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?  I've  seen  your 
chart  and  you've  no  cause  to  worry.  Doctor  Stan- 
ton  joked  about  it.  He  said  you  were  too  uninter 
esting — there  was  so  little  the  matter  with  you. 

MURRAY — [Pleased  but  pretending  indifference] 
Humph !  He's  original  in  that  opinion. 

Miss  HOWARD — I  know  it's  hard  you're  being  the 
only  one  up  the  week  since  you've  been  here,  with  no 
one  to  talk  to;  but  there's  another  patient  due  to 
day.  Maybe  she'll  be  well  enough  to  be  around  with 
you.  [With  a  quick  glance  at  her  wrist  watch]  She 
can't  be  coming  unless  she  got  in  on  the  last  train. 

MURRAY — [Interestedly]     It's  a  she,  eh? 

Miss  HOWARD — Yes. 

MURRAY — [Grinning  provokingly]    Young? 

Miss  HOWARD — Eighteen,  I  believe.    [Seeing  his 


THE  STRAW  33 

grm — with  feigned  pique.]  I  suppose  you'll  be  ask 
ing  if  she's  pretty  next !  Oh,  you  men  are  all  alike, 
sick  or  well.  Her  name  is  Carmody,  that's  the  only 
other  thing  I  know.  So  there ! 

MURRAY — Carmody  ? 

Miss  HOWARD — Oh,  you  don't  know  her.  She's 
from  another  part  of  the  state  from  your  town. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Appearing  in  the  office  doorway.} 
Miss  Howard. 

Miss  HOWARD — Yes,  Miss  Gilpin.  [In  an  aside  to 
MURRAY  as  she  leaves  him.]  It's  time  for  those  hor 
rid  diets.  [She  hurries  back  into  the  office.  MUR 
RAY  stares  into  the  fire.  Miss  HOWARD  reappears 
from  the  office  and  goes  out  by  the  door  to  the  hall, 
rear.  Carriage  wheels  are  heard  from  the  driveway 
m  front  of  the  house  on  the  left.  They  stop.  After 
a  pause  there  is  a  sharp  rap  on  the  door  and  a  bell 
rings  insistently.  Men's  muffled  voices  are  heard  in 
argument.  MURRAY  turns  curiously  m  his  chair.  Miss 
GILPIN  comes  from  the  office  and  walks  quickly  to  the 
door,  unlocking  and  opening  it.  EILEEN  enters,  fol 
lowed  by  NICHOLAS,  who  is  carrying  her  suit-case, 
and  by  her  father. ,] 

EILEEN — I'm  Miss  Carmody.  I  believe  Doctor 
Gaynor  wrote 

Miss  GILPIN — [Taking  her  hand — with  kind 
affability.}  We've  been  expecting  you  all  day.  How 
do  you  do?  I'm  Miss  Gilpin.  You  came  on  the  last 
train,  didn't  you? 

EILEEN — [Heartened  by  the  other  woman's  kw3- 


34  THE  STRAW 

ness.']  Yes.  This  is  my  father,  Miss  Gilpin — and 
Mr.  Nicholls — [Miss  GILPIN  shakes  hands  cordially 
with  the  two  men  who  are  staring  about  the  room  in 
embarrassment.  CARMODY  has  very  evidently  been, 
drinking.  His  voice  is  thick  and  his  face  puffed  and 
stupid.  NICHOLLS'  manner  is  that  of  one  who  is  ac 
complishing  a  necessary  but  disagreeable  duty  with 
the  best  grace  possible,  but  is  frightfully  eager  to 
get  it  over  and  done  with.  CARMODY'S  condition  em 
barrasses  him  acutely  and  when  he  glances  at  him  it 
is  with  hatred  and  angry  disgust.] 

Miss  GILPIN — [Indicating  the  chairs  in  front  of 
the  windows  on  the  left,  forward.]  Won't  you  gen 
tlemen  sit  down?  [CARMODY  grunts  sullenly  and 
plumps  himself  into  the  one  nearest  the  door. 
NICHOLLS  hesitates,  glacing  down  at  the  suit-case  he 
carries.  Miss  GILPIN  turns  to  EILEEN.]  And  now 
we'll  get  you  settled  immediately.  Your  room  is  all 

ready  for  you.  If  you'll  follow  me [She  turns 

toward  the  door  in  rear,  center.] 

EILEEN — Let  me  take  the  suit-case  now,  Fred. 

Miss  GILPIN — [As  he  is  about  to  hand  it  to  her — 
decisively.]  No,  my  dear,  you  mustn't.  Put  the 
case  right  down  there,  Mr.  Nicholls.  I'll  have  it 
taken  to  Miss  Carmody's  room  in  a  moment.  [She 
shakes  her  finger  at  EILEEN  with  kindly  admonition.] 
That's  the  first  rule  you'll  have  to  learn.  Never  ex 
ert  yourself  or  tax  your  strength.  It's  very  im 
portant.  You'll  find  laziness  is  a  virtue  instead  of 
a  vice  with  us. 


THE  STRAW  35 

EILEEN — [Confused.]     I I  didn't  know 

Miss  GILPIN — [Smiling.]  Of  course  you  didn't. 
And  now  if  you'll  come  with  me  I'll  show  you  your 
room.  We'll  have  a  little  chat  there  and  I  can  ex 
plain  all  the  other  important  rules  in  a  second.  The 
gentlemen  can  make  themselves  comfortable  in  the 
meantime.  We  won't  be  gone  more  than  a  moment. 

NICHOLLS — [Feeling  called  upon  to  say  some- 
tiling. ~\  Yes — we'll  wait — certainly,  we're  all  right. 
[CARMODY  remains  silent,  glowering  at  the  fire. 
NICHOLAS  sits  down  beside  him.  Miss  GILPIN  and 
EILEEN  go  out.  MURRAY  switches  his  chair  so  he 
can  observe  the  two  men  .out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye 
while  pretending  to  be  absorbed  in  his  book.] 

CARMODY — [Looking  about  shiftily  and  reaching 
for  the  inside  pocket  of  his  overcoat.]  I'll  be  havin' 
a  nip  now  we're  alone,  and  that  cacklin'  hen  gone. 
I'm  feelin'  sick  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach.  [He  pulls 
out  a  pint  flask,  half  full.] 

NICHOLLS — [Excitedly.]  For  God's  sake,  don't! 
Put  that  bottle  away!  [In  a  whisper.]  Don't  you 
see  that  fellow  in  the  chair  there? 

CARMODY — [Taking  a  big  drmk.]  Ah,  I'm  not 
mindin'  a  man  at  all.  Sure  I'll  bet  it's  himself  would 
be  likin'  a  taste  of  the  same.  [He  appears  about  to 
get  up  and  invite  MURRAY  to  join  him  but  NICHOLLS 
grabs  his  arm.] 

NICHOLLS — [With  a  frightened  look  at  MURRAY 
who  appears  buried  in  his  book.]  Stop  it,  you 


36  THE  STRAW 

Don't  you  know  he's  probably  a  patient  and  they 

don't  allow  them 

CARMODY — [Scornfully.]  A  sick  one,  and  him 
readin'  a  book  like  a  dead  man  without  a  civil  word 
out  of  him!  It's  queer  they'd  be  allowin'  the  sick 
ones  to  read  books  when  I'll  bet  it's  the  same  lazy 
readin'  in  the  house  brought  the  half  of  them  down 
with  the  consumption  itself.  [Raising  his  voice.] 
I'm  thinkin'  this  whole  shebang  is  a  big,  thievin' 
fake — and  I've  always  thought  so. 

NICHOLAS — [Furiously.  ]  Put  that  bottle  away, 
damn  it !  And  don't  shout.  You're  not  in  a  barrel 
house. 

CARMODY — [With  provoking  calm.]  I'll  put  it 
back  when  I'm  ready,  not  before,  and  no  lip  from 
you! 

NICHOLLS — [With  fierce  disgust.]  You're  drunk 
now.  It's  disgusting. 

CARMODY — [Raging.]  Drunk,  am  I?  Is  it  the 
like  of  a  young  jackass  like  you  that's  still  wet 
behind  the  ears  to  be  tellin'  me  I'm  drunk? 

NICHOI/LS — [Half-rising  from  his  chair — plead 
ingly.]  For  heaven's  sake,  Mr.  Carmody,  remember 
where  we  are  and  don't  raise  any  rumpus.  What'll 
Eileen  say?  Do  you  want  to  make  trouble  for  her 
at  the  start? 

CARMODY — [Puts  the  bottle  away  hastily,  mum 
bling  to  himself — then  glowers  about  the  room 
scornfully  with  blinking  eyes.]  It's  a  grand  hotel 
this  is,  I'm  thinkin',  for  the  rich  to  be  takin'  their 


THE  STRAW  37 

ease,  and  not  a  hospital  for  the  poor,  but  the  poor 
has  to  pay  for  it. 

NICHOLLS — [Fearful  of  another  outbreak.']  Sshhl 

CARMODY — Don't  be  shshin'  at  me?  I'm  tellin' 
you  the  truth.  I'd  make  Eileen  come  back  out  of 
this  tonight  if  that  divil  of  a  doctor  didn't  have  me 
by  the  throat. 

NICHOLLS — [Glancing  at  him  nervously.]  I  won 
der  how  soon  she'll  be  back  ?  The  carriage  is  waiting 
for  us.  We'll  have  to  hurry  to  make  that  last  train 
back.  If  we  miss  it — it  means  two  hours  on  the 
damn  trolley. 

CARMODY — [Angrily.]  Is  it  anxious  to  get  out  of 
her  sight  you  are,  and  you  engaged  to  marry  and 
pretendin'  to  love  her?  [NICHOLLS  flushes  guiltily. 
MURRAY  pricks  up  his  ears  and  stares  over  at 
NICHOLLS.  The  latter  meets  his  glance,  scowls,  and 
hurriedly  averts  his  eyes.  CARMODY  goes  on  accus 
ingly.]  Sure,  it's  no  heart  at  all  you  have — and  her 
your  sweetheart  for  years — and  her  sick  with  the 
consumption — and  you  wild  to  run  away  from  her 
and  leave  her  alone. 

NICHOLLS — [Springing  to  his  feet — furiously.] 

That's  a !  [He  controls  himself  with  an  effort. 

His  voice  trembles.]  You're  not  responsible  for  the 

idiotic  things  you're  saying  or  I'd [He  turns 

away,  seeking  some  escape  from  the  old  man's 
tongue.]  I'll  see  if  the  man  is  still  there  with  the  rig. 
[He  goes  to  the  door  on  left  and  goes  out.] 

CARMODY — [Following  him  with  his  eyes.]    Go  to 


38  THE  STRAW 

hell,  for  all  I'm  preventin'.  You've  got  no  guts  of 
a  man  in  you.  [He  addresses  MURRAY  with  the  good 
nature  inspired  by  the  flight  of  NICHOLAS.]  Is  it 
true  you're  one  of  the  consumptives,  young  fellow? 

MURRAY — [Delighted  by  this  speech — with  a 
grw.~]  Yes,  I'm  one  of  them. 

CARMODY — My  name's  Carmody.  What's  yours, 
then? 

MURRAY — Murray. 

CARMODY — [Slapping  his  thigh.~\  Irish  as  Paddy's 
pig!  [MURRAY  nods.  CARMODY  brightens  and  grows 
confidential.]  I'm  glad  to  be  knowin'  you're  one  of 
us.  You  can  keep  an  eye  on  Eileen.  That's  my 
daughter  that  come  with  us.  She's  got  consumption 
like  yourself. 

MURRAY — I'll  be  glad  to  do  all  I  can. 

CARMODY — Thanks  to  you — though  it's  a  grand 
life  she'll  be  havin'  here  from  the  fine  look  of  the 
place.  [With  whining  self -pity. ~\  It's  me  it's  hard 
on,  God  help  me,  with  four  small  children  and  me 
widowed,  and  havin'  to  hire  a  woman  to  come  in  and 
look  after  them  and  the  house  now  that  Eileen's  sick ; 
and  payin'  for  her  curin'  in  this  place,  and  me  with 
only  a  bit  of  money  in  the  bank  for  my  old  age. 
That's  hard,  now,  on  a  man,  and  who'll  say  it  isn't  ? 

MURRAY — [Made  uncomfortable  by  this  confi 
dence.]  Hard  luck  always  comes  in  bunches.  [To 
head  off  CARMODY  who  is  about  to  give  vent  to  more 
woe — quickly,  with  a  glance  toward  the  door  from 


THE  STRAW  39 

the  hall.']  If  I'm  not  mistaken,  here  conies  your 
daughter  now. 

CARMODY — [As  EILEEN  comes  into  the  room.] 
I'll  make  you  acquainted.  Eileen !  [She  comes  over 
to  them,  embarrassed  to  find  her  father  in  his  condi 
tion  so  chummy  with  a  stranger.  MURRAY  rises  to 
his  feet.]  This  is  Mr.  Murray,  Eileen.  I  want  you 
to  meet.  He's  Irish  and  he'll  put  you  on  to  the 
ropes  of  the  place.  He's  got  the  consumption,  too, 
God  pity  him. 

EILEEN — [Distressed.]  Oh,  Father,  how  can 

you [With  a  look  at  MURRAY  which  pleads  for 

her  father.]  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Murray. 

MURRAY — [With  a  straight  glance  at  her  which  is 
so  frankly  admiring  that  she  flushes  and  drops  her 
eyes.]  I'm  glad  to  meet  you.  [The  front  door  is 
opened  and  NICHOLAS  re-appears,  shivering  with  the 
cold.  He  stares  over  at  the  others  with  ill-concealed 
irritation.] 

CARMODY — [Noticing  him — with  malicious  satis 
faction.]  Oho,  here  you  are  again.  [NICHOI/LS 
scowls  and  turns  away.  CARMODY  addresses  his 
daughter  with  a  sly  wink  at  MURRAY.]  I  thought 
Fred  was  slidin'  down  hill  to  the  train  with  his  head 
bare  to  the  frost,  and  him  so  desperate  hurried  to 
get  away  from  here.  Look  at  the  knees  on  him 
clappin'  together  with  the  cold,  and  with  the  great 
fear  that's  in  him  he'll  be  catchin'  a  sickness  in  this 
place!  [NICHOLLS,  his  guilty  conscience  stabbed  to 
the  quick,  turns  pale  with  impotent  rage.] 


46  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — [Remonstrating  pitifully,}  Father! 
Please!  [She  hurries  over  to  Nicholls.~\  Oh,  please 
don't  mind  him,  Fred!  You  know  what  he  is  when 
he's  drinking.  He  doesn't  mean  a  word  he's  saying. 

NICHOLAS — [Thickly.]  That's  all  right — for 
you  to  say.  But  I  won't  forget — I'm  sick  and  tired 
standing  for — I'm  not  used  to — such  people. 

EILEEN — [Shrinking  from  him.~\     Fred! 

NICHOLLS — [With  a  furious  glance  at  MURRAY.] 
Before  that  cheap  slob,  too — letting  him  know  ev 
erything  ! 

EILEEN — [Faintly.]      He  seems — very  nice. 

NICHOLLS — You've  got  your  eyes  set  on  him  al 
ready,  have  you?  Leave  it  to  you!  No  fear  of 
your  not  having  a  good  time  of  it  out  here ! 

EILEEN — Fred ! 

NICHOLLS — Well,  go  ahead  if  you  want  to.  I 
don't  care.  I'll [Startled  by  the  look  of  an 
guish  which  comes  over  her  face,  he  hastily  swallows 
his  words.  He  takes  out  watch — fiercely.}  We'll 
miss  that  train,  damn  it ! 

EILEEN — [In  a  stricken  tone.]  Oh,  Fred!  [Then 
forcing  back  her  tears  she  calls  to  CARMODY  in  a 
strained  voice.]  Father!  You'll  have  to  go  now. 
Miss  Gilpin  said  to  tell  you  you'd  have  to  go  right 
away  to  make  the  train. 

CARMODY — [Shaking  hands  with  MURRAY.]  I'll 
be  goin'.  Keep  your  eye  on  her.  I'll  be  out  soon  to 
see  her  and  you  and  me'll  have  another  chin. 

MURRAY — Glad   to.      Good-bye   for   the   present. 


THE  STRAW  41 

[He  walks  to  windows  on  the  far  right,  turning  his 
back  considerately  on  their  leave-taking.] 

EILEEN — [Comes  to  CARMODY  and  hangs  on  his 
arm  as  they  proceed  to  the  door.]  Be  sure  and  kiss 
them  all  for  me — Billy  and  Tom  and  Nora  and  little 
Mary — and  bring  them  out  to  see  me  as  soon  as  you 
can,  father,  please !  And  you  come  often,  too,  won't 
you?  And  don't  forget  to  tell  Mrs.  Brennan  all  the 
directions  I  gave  you  coming  out  on  the  train.  I 
told  her  but  she  mightn't  remember — about  Mary's 
bath — and  to  give  Tom  his 

CARMODY — [Impatiently.']  Hasn't  she  brought 
up  brats  of  her  own,  and  doesn't  she  know  the  way 
of  it?  Don't  be  worryin*  now,  like  a  fool. 

EILEEN — [Helplessly.']  Never  mind  telling  her, 
then.  I'll  write  to  her. 

CARMODY — You'd  better  not.  Leave  her  alone. 
She'll  not  wish  you  mixin'  in  with  her  work  and  tellin* 
her  how  to  do  it. 

EILEEN — [Aghast.]  Her  work!  [She  seems  at 
the  end  of  her  tether — wrung  too  dry  for  any  fur 
ther  emotion.  She  kisses  her  -father  at  the  door  with 
indifference  and  speaks  calmly.]  Good-bye,  father. 

CARMODY — [In  a  whining  tone  of  injury.]  A  cold 
kiss!  And  never  a  small  tear  out  of  her!  Is  your 
heart  a  stone?  [Drunken  tears  well  from  his  eyes 
and  he  blubbers.]  And  3'our  own  father  going  back 
to  a  lone  house  with  a  stranger  in  it ! 

EILEEN — [Wearily  in  a  dead  voice.]  You'll  miss 
your  train,  father. 


42  THE  STRAW 

CAEMODY — [Raging  in  a  second.]  I'm  off,  then! 
Come  on,  Fred.  It's  no  welcome  we  have  with  her 
here  in  this  place — and  a  great  curse  on  this  day  I 
brought  her  to  it !  [He  stamps  out.~\ 

EILEEN — [In  the  same  dead  tone.]  Good-bye, 
Fred. 

NICHOLAS — [Repenting  his  words  of  a  moment 
ago — confusedly.}  I'm  sorry,  Eileen — for  what  I 
said.  I  didn't  mean — you  know  what  your  father 
is — excuse  me,  won't  you? 

EILEEN — [Without  feeling.]     Yes. 

NICHOLLS — And  I'll  be  out  soon — in  a  week  if  I 
can  make  it.  Well  then, — good-bye  for  the  pres 
ent.  [He  bends  down  as  if  to  kiss  her  but  she  shrinks 
back  out  of  his  reach.] 

EILEEN — [A  faint  trace  of  mockery  in  her  weary 
voice.]  No,  Fred.  Remember  you  mustn't  now. 

NICHOLLS — [In  an  instant  huff.]      Oh,  if  that's 

the  way  you  feel  about [He  strides  out  and 

slams  the  door  viciously  behind  him.  EILEEN  walks 
slowly  back  toward  the  fireplace,  her  face  fixed  in  a 
dead  calm  of  despair.  As  she  sinks  into  one  of  the 
armchairs,  the  strain  becomes  too  much.  She  breaks 
down,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  her  frail  shoul 
ders  heaving  with  the  violence  of  her  sobs.  At  this 
sound,  MURRAY  turns  from  the  windows  and  comes 
over  near  her  chair.] 

MURRAY — [After  watching  her  for  a  moment — in 
an  embarrassed  tone  of  sympathy.]  Come  on,  Miss 
Carmody,  that'll  never  do.  I  know  it's  hard  at  first 


THE  STRAW  43 

— but — getting  yourself  all  worked  up  is  bad  for 
you.  You'll  run  a  temperature  and  then  they'll 
keep  you  in  bed — which  isn't  pleasant.  Take  hold 
of  yourself!  It  isn't  so  bad  up  here — really — once 
you  get  used  to  it !  [The  shame  she  feels  at  giving 
way  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger  only  adds  to  her 
loss  of  control  and  she  sobs  heartbrokenly.  MUR 
RAY  walks  up  and  down  nervously,  visibly  nonplussed 
and  upset.  Finally  he  hits  upon  something .]  One 
of  the  nurses  will  be  in  any  minute.  You  don't  want 
them  to  see  you  like  this. 

EILEEN — [Choices  back  her  sobs  and  -finally  raises 
her  face  and  attempts  a  smile.~\  I'm  sorry — to  make 
such  a  sight  of  myself.  I  just  couldn't  help  it. 

MURRAY — [Jocularly.]  Well,  they  say  a  good 
cry  does  you  a  lot  of  good. 

EILEEN — [Forcing  a  smile. ~\     I  do  feel — better. 

MURRAY — [Staring  at  her  with  a  quizzical  smile 
— cynically.'}  You  shouldn't  take  those  lovers' 
squabbles  so  seriously.  Tomorrow  he'll  be  sorry — 
you'll  be  sorry.  He'll  write  begging  forgiveness — 
you'll  do  ditto.  Result — all  serene  again. 

EILEEN — [A  shadow  of  paw  on  her  face — with 
dignity]  Don't — please. 

MURRAY — [Angry  at  himself — hanging  his  head 
contritely.']  I'm  a  fool.  Pardon  me.  I'm  rude 
sometimes — before  I  know  it.  [He  shakes  off  his 
confusion  with  a  renewed  attempt  at  a  joking  tone."] 
You  can  blame  your  father  for  any  breaks  I  make. 


44  THE  STRAW 

He  made  me  your  guardian,  you  know — told  me  to 
see  that  you  behaved. 

EILEEN — [With  a  genuine  smile.']  Oh,  father! 
[Flushing.]  You  mustn't  mind  anything  he  said 
tonight. 

MURRAY — [Thoughtlessly.]  Yes,  he  was  well  lit 
up.  I  envied  him.  [EILEEN  looks  very  shamefaced. 
MURRAY  sees  it  and  exclaims  in  exasperation  at  him 
self.]  Darn!  There  I  go  again  putting  my  foot  in 
it!  [With  an  irrepressible  grin.]  I  ought  to  have 
my  tongue  operated  on — that's  what's  the  matter 
with  me.  [He  laughs  and  throws  himself  in  a  chair.] 

EILEEN — [Forced  in  spite  of  herself  to  smile  with 
him.]  You're  candid,  at  any  rate,  Mr.  Murray. 

MURRAY — Don't  misunderstand  me.  Far  be  it 
from  me  to  cast  slurs  at  your  father's  high  spirits. 
I  said  I  envied  him  his  jag  and  that's  the  truth.  The 
same  candor  compels  me  to  confess  that  I  was  pickled 
to  the  gills  myself  when  I  arrived  here.  Fact !  I 
made  love  to  all  the  nurses  and  generally  disgraced 
myself — and  had  a  wonderful  time. 

EILEEN — I  suppose  it  does  make  you  forget  your 
troubles — for  a  while. 

MURRAY — [Waving  this  aside.]  I  didn't  want  to 
forget — not  for  a  second.  I  wasn't  drowning  my 
sorrow.  I  was  hilariously  celebrating. 

EILEEN — [Astonished — by  this  time  quite  inter 
ested  in  this  queer  fellow  to  the  momentary  forget- 
•f nines  s  of  her  own  grief.]  Celebrating — coming 
here?  But — aren't  you  sick? 


THE  STRAW  45 

MURRAY — T.  B.?  Yes,  of  course.  [Confiden 
tially.]  But  it's  only  a  matter  of  time  when  I'll  be 
all  right  again.  I  hope  it  won't  be  too  soon.  I  was 
dying  for  a  rest — a  good,  long  rest  with  time  to 
think  about  things.  I'm  due  to  get  what  I  wanted 
here.  That's  why  I  celebrated. 

EILEEN — [With  wide  eyes.]  I  wonder  if  you 
really  mean 

MURRAY — What  I've  been  sayin'?  I  sure  do — 
every  word  of  it ! 

EILEEN — [Puzzled.]  I  can't  understand  how 

anyone  could [With  a  worried  glance  over  her 

shoulder.]  I  think  I'd  better  look  for  Miss  Gilpin, 

hadn't  I?  She  may  wonder [She  half  rises 

from  her  chair.] 

MURRAY — [Quickly.]  No.  Please  don't  go  yet. 
Sit  down.  Please  do.  [She  glances  at  him  irreso 
lutely,  then  resumes  her  chair.]  They'll  give  you 
your  diet  of  milk  and  shoo  you  off  to  bed  on  that 
freezing  porch  soon  enough,  don't  worry.  I'll  see 
to  it  that  you  don't  fracture  any  rules.  [Hitching 
his  chair  nearer  hers, — impulsively.]  In  all  charity 
to  me  you've  got  to  stick  awhile.  I  haven't  had  a 
chance  to  really  talk  to  a  soul  for  a  week.  You 
found  what  I  said  a  while  ago  hard  to  believe,  didn't 
you? 

EILEEN — [With  a  smile.]  Isn't  it?  You  said  you 
hoped  you  wouldn't  get  well  too  soon ! 

MURRAY — And  I  meant  it!  This  place  is  hon 
estly  like  heaven  to  me — a  lonely  heaven  till  your 


46  THE  STRAW 

arrival.  [EILEEN  looks  embarrassed.]  And  why 
wouldn't  it  be?  I've  no  fear  for  my  health — even 
tually.  Just  let  me  tell  you  what  I  was  getting 

away  from [With  a  sudden  laugh  full  of.ji 

weary  bitterness]  Do  you  know  what  it  means  to 
work  from  seven  at  night  till  three  in  the  morning 
as  a  reporter  on  a  morning  newspaper  in  a  town  of 
twenty  thousand  people — for  ten  years?  No.  You 
don't.  You  can't.  No  one  could  who  hadn't  been 
through  the  mill.  But  what  it  did  to  me — it  made 
me  happy — yes,  happy! — to  get  out  here — T.  B. 
and  all,  notwithstanding. 

EILEEN — [Looking  at  him  curiously]  But  I  al 
ways  thought  being  a  reporter  was  so  interesting. 

MURRAY — [With  a  cynical  laugh]  Interesting? 
On  a  small  town  rag?  A  month  of  it,  perhaps,  when 
you're  a  kid  and  new  to  the  game.  But  ten  years. 
Think  of  it !  With  only  a  raise  of  a  couple  of  dol 
lars  every  blue  moon  or  so,  and  a  weekly  spree  on 
Saturday  night  to  vary  the  monotony.  [He  laughs 
again]  Interesting,  eh?  Getting  the  dope  on  the 
Social  of  the  Queen  Esther  Circle  in  the  basement  of 
the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  unable  to  sleep 
through  a  meeting  of  the  Common  Council  on  ac 
count  of  the  noisy  oratory  caused  by  John  Smith's 
application  for  a  permit  to  build  a  house;  making 
a  note  that  a  tug  boat  towed  two  barges  loaded  with 
coal  up  the  river,  that  Mrs.  Perkins  spent  a  week 
end  with  relatives  in  Hickville,  that  John  Jones 

Oh  help!  Why  go  on?  Ten  years  of  it!  I'm  a 


THE  STRAW  47 

broken  man.  God,  how  I  used  to  pray  that  our 
Congressman  would  commit  suicide,  or  the  Mayor 
murder  his  wife — just  to  be  able  to  write  a  real 
story ! 

EILEEN — [With  a  smile.]  Is  it  as  bad  as  that? 
But  weren't  there  other  things  in  the  town — outside 
your  work — that  were  interesting? 

MURRAY — [Decidedly.]  Nope.  Never  anything 
new — and  I  knew  everyone  and  everything  in  town 
by  heart  years  ago.  [With  sudden  bitterness.] 
Oh,  it  was  my  own  fault.  Why  didn't  I  get  out  of  it? 
Well,  I  didn't.  I  was  always  going  to — tomorrow — 
and  tomorrow  never  came.  I  got  in  a  rut — and 
stayed  put.  People  seem  to  get  that  way,  somehow 
• — in  that  town.  It's  in  the  air.  All  the  boys  I 
grew  up  with — nearly  all,  at  least — took  root  in  the 
same  way.  It  took  pleurisy,  followed  by  T.  B.,  to 
blast  me  loose. 

EILEEN — [Wonderingly.]  But — your  family — • 
didn't  they  live  there? 

MURRAY — I  haven't  much  of  a  family  left.  My 
mother  died  when  I  was  a  kid.  My  father — he  was 
a  lawyer — died  when  I  was  nineteen,  just  about  to 
go  to  college.  He  left  nothing,  so  I  went  to  work 
on  the  paper  instead.  And  there  I've  been  ever 
since.  I've  two  sisters,  respectably  married  and 
living  in  another  part  of  the  state.  We  don't  get 
along — but  they  are  paying  for  me  here,  so  I  sup 
pose  I've  no  kick.  [Cynically.]  A  family  wouldn't 
have  changed  things.  From  what  I've  seen  that 


48  THE  STRAW 

blood-thicker-than-water  dope  is  all  wrong.  It's 
thinner  than  table-d'hote  soup.  You  may  have  seen 
a  bit  of  that  truth  in  your  own  case  already. 

EILEEN — [Shocked.]  How  can  you  say  that? 
You  don't  know 

MURRAY — Don't  I,  though  ?  Wait  till  you've  been 
here  three  months  or  four — when  the  gap  you  left 
has  been  comfortably  filled.  You'll  see  then! 

EILEEN — [Angrily,  her  lips  trembling.]  You 
must  be  crazy  to  say  such  things!  [Fighting  back 
her  tears.]  Oh,  I  think  it's  hateful — when  you  see 
how  badly  I  feel! 

MURRAY — [In  acute  confusion.  Stammering.] 

Look  here,  Miss  Carmody,  I  didn't  mean  to 

Listen — don't  feel  mad  at  me,  please.  My  tongue 
ran  away  with  me.  I  was  only  talking.  I'm  like 
that.  You  mustn't  take  it  seriously. 

EILEEN — [Still  resentful.]  I  don't  see  how  you 
can  talk.  You  don't — you  can't  know  about  the  -c 
things — when  you've  just  said  you  had  no  family  of 
your  own,  really. 

MURRAY — [Eager  to  return  to  her  good  graces.] 
No.  Of  course  I  don't  know.  I  was  just  talking 
regardless  for  the  fun  of  listening  to  it. 

EILEEN — [After  a  pause.]  Hasn't  either  of  your 
sisters  any  children? 

MURRAY — One  of  them  has — two  of  them — ugly, 
squally  little  brats. 

EILEEN — [Disapprovingly.]  You  don't  like  ba 
bies  ? 


THE  STRAW  49 

MURRAY — [Bluntly.]  No.  [Then  with  a  grin 
at  her  shocked  face.]  I  don't  get  them.  They're 
something  I  can't  seem  to  get  acquainted  with. 

EILEEN — [With  a  smile,  indulgently.]  You're  a 
funny  person.  [Then  with  a  superior  motherly  air.] 
No  wonder  you  couldn't  understand  how  badly  I 
feel.  [With  a  tender  smile]  I've  four  of  them — 
my  brothers  and  sisters — though  they're  not  what 
you'd  call  babies,  except  to  me.  Billy  is  fourteen, 
Nora  eleven,  Tom  ten,  and  even  little  Mary  is  eight. 
I've  been  a  mother  to  them  now  for  a  whole  year — 
ever  since  our  mother  died.  [Sadly]  And  I  don't 
know  how  they'll  ever  get  along  while  I'm  away. 

MURRAY—  [Cynically]  Oh,  they'll—  [He 
checks  what  he  was  going  to  say  and  adds  lamely] 
get  along  somehow. 

EILEEN — [With  the  same  superior  tone]  It's 
easy  for  you  to  say  that.  You  don't  know  how 
children  grow  to  depend  on  you  for  everything. 
You're  not  a  woman. 

MURRAY — [With  a  grin]  Are  you?  [Then 
with  a  chuckle]  You're  as  old  as  the  pyramids, 
aren't  you?  I  feel  like  a  little  boy.  Won't  you 
adopt  me,  too? 

EILEEN — [Flushing,  with  a  shy  smile]  Someone 
ought  to.  [Quickly  changing  the  subject]  Do  you 
know,  I  can't  get  over  what  you  said  about  hating 
your  work  so.  I  should  think  it  would  be  wonderful 
• — to  be  able  to  write  things. 

MURRAY — My  job  had  nothing  to  do  with  writing. 


50  THE  STRAW 

To  write — really  write — yes,  that's  something  worth 
trying  for.  That's  what  I've  always  meant  to  have 
a  stab  at.  I've  run  across  ideas  enough  for  stories 
— that  sounded  good  to  me,  anyway.  [  With  a  forced 
laugh.]  But — like  everything  else — I  never  got 
down  to  it.  I  started  one  or  two — but — either  I 

thought  I  didn't  have  the  time  or [He  shrugs 

his  shoulders.'} 

EILEEN — Well,  you've  plenty  of  time  now,  haven't 
you? 

MURRAY — [Instantly  struck  by  this  suggestion.] 

You  mean I  could  write — up  here?  [She  nods. 

His  face  lights  up  with  enthusiasm.']  Say!  That  is 
an  idea !  Thank  you !  I'd  never  have  had  sense 
enough  to  have  thought  of  that  myself.  [EILEEN 
•flushes  with  pleasure.]  Sure  there's  time — nothing 
but  time  up  here 

EILEEN — Then  you  seriously  think  you'll  try  it? 

MURRAY — [Determinedly]  Yes.  Why  not?  I've 
got  to  try  and  do  something  real  sometime,  haven't 
I?  I've  no  excuse  not  to,  now.  My  mind  isn't  sick. 

EILEEN—  [Excitedly]     That'll  be  wonderful! 

MURRAY — [Confidently]  Listen.  I've  had  ideas 
for  a  series  of  short  stories  for  the  last  couple  of 
years — small  town  experiences,  some  of  them  actual. 
I  know  that  life — too  darn  well.  I  ought  to  be  able 
to  write  about  it.  And  if  I  can  sell  one — to  the 
Post ,  say — I'm  sure  they'd  take  the  others,  too.  And 
then I  should  worry!  It'd  be  easy  sailing. 


THE  STRAW  51 

But  you  must  promise  to  help — play  critic  for  me 
— read  them  and  tell  me  where  they're  rotten. 

EILEEN — [Pleased  but  protesting.]  Oh,  no,  I'd 
never  dare.  I  don't  know  anything 

MURRAY — Yes,  you  do.  You're  the  public.  And 
you  started  me  off  on  this  thing — if  I'm  really 
starting  at  last.  So  you've  got  to  back  me  up  now. 
[Suddenly.]  Say,  I  wonder  if  they'd  let  me  have  a 
typewriter  up  here?  i 

EILEEN — It'd  be  fine  if  they  would.  I'd  like  to 
have  one,  too — to  practice.  I  learned  stenography 
at  business  college  and  then  I  had  a  position  for  a 
year — before  my  mother  died. 

MURRAY — We  could  hire  one — I  could.  I  don't 
see  why  they  wouldn't  allow  it.  I'm  to  be  sent  to  one 
of  the  men's  shacks  within  the  next  few  days,  and 
you'll  be  shipped  to  one  of  the  women's  cottages 
within  ten  d  ys.  You're  not  sick  enough  to  be  kept 
here  in  bed,  I'm  sure  of  that. 

EILEEN — I I  don't  know 

MURRAY — Here!  None  of  that!  You  just  think 
you're  not  and  you  won't  be.  Say,  I'm  keen  on  that 
typewriter  idea.  They  couldn't  kick  if  we  only 
used  it  during  recreation  periods.  I  could  have  it 
a  week,  and  then  you  a  week. 

EILEEN — [Eagerly.]  And  I  could  type  your 
stories  after  you've  written  them !  I  could  help  that 
way. 

MURRAY — [Smiling.]  But  I'm  quite  able • 

[Then  seeing  how  interested  she  is  he  adds  hur- 


52  THE  STRAW 

riedly]  That'd  be  great!  It'd  save  so  much  time. 
I've  always  been  a  bum  at  a  machine.  And  I'd  be 

willing  to  pay  whatever [Miss  GILPIN  enters 

from  the  rear  and  walks  toward  them.] 

EILEEN — [Quickly.]  Oh,  no!  I'd  be  glad  to 

get  the  practice.  I  wouldn't  accept [She 

coughs  slightly] 

MURRAY — [With  a  laugh]  Maybe,  after  you've 
read  my  stuff,  you  won't  type  it  at  any  price. 

Miss  GILPIN — Miss  Carmody,  may  I  speak  to  you 
for  a  moment,  please.  [She  takes  EILEEN  aside  and 
talks  to  her  in  low  tones  of  admonition.  EILEEN'S 
face  falls*  She  nods  a  horrified  acquiescence.  Miss 
GILPIN  leaves  her  and  goes  into  the  office,  rear] 

MURRAY — [As  Eileen  comes  back.  Noticing  her 
perturbation.  Kmdly.]  Well?  Now,  what's  the 
trouble  ? 

EILEEN — [Her  lips  trembling]  She  told  me  I 
mustn't  forget  to  shield  my  mouth  with  my  handker 
chief  when  I  cough. 

MURRAY — [Consolingly.]  Yes,  that's  one  of  the 
rules,  you  know. 

EILEEN — [Faltermgly]  She  said  they'd  give  me 

— a — cup  to  carry  around [She  stops,  shud- 

dermg.] 

MURRAY — [Easily]  It's  not  as  horrible  as  it 
sounds*  They're  only  little  paste-board  things  you 
carry  in  your  pocket. 

EILEEN — [As  if  speaking  to  herself.]  It's  so  hor 
rible.  [She  holds  out  her  hand  to  MURRAY.]  I'm 


THE  STRAW  68 

to  go  to  my  room  now.     Good  night,  Mr.  Murray. 

MURRAY — [Holding  her  hand  for  a  moment— 
earnestly.]  Don't  mind  your  first  impressions  here. 
You'll  look  on  everything  as  a  matter  of  course  in 
a  few  days.  I  felt  your  way  at  first.  [He  drops 
her  hand  and  shakes  his  finger  at  her.]  Mind  your 
guardian,  now!  [She  forces  a  trembling  smile.] 
See  you  at  breakfast.  Good  night.  [EILEEN  goes 
out  to  the  hall  in  rear.  Miss  HOWARD  comes  in  from 
the  door  just  after  her,  carrying  a  glass  of  milk.] 

Miss  HOWARD — Almost  bedtime,  Mr.  Murray. 
Here's  your  diet.  [He  takes  the  glass.  She  smiles 
at  him  provokingly.]  Well,  is  it  love  at  first  sight, 
Mr.  Murray? 

MURRAY — [With  a  grin.]     Sure  thing!  •  You  can 
consider  yourself  heartlessly  jilted.     [He  turns  and 
raises   his  glass    toward   the   door   through   which 
EILEEN  has  just  gone,  as  if  toasting  her.] 
"A  glass  of  milk,  and  thou 

Coughing  beside  me  in  the  wilderness 

Ah wilderness  were  Paradise  enow!" 

[He  takes  a  sip  of  milk.] 

Miss  HOWARD — [Peevishly.]  That's  old  stuff, 
Mr.  Murray.  A  patient  at  Saranac  wrote  that  par 
ody. 

MURRAY — [Maliciously.]  Aha,  you've  discovered 
it's  a  parody,  have  you,  you  sly  minx !  [Miss  HOW 
ARD  turns  from  him  huffily  and  walks  back  towards 
the  office,  her  chm  m  the  air.] 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


ACT  II 


ACT  II 

SCENE  ONE 

SCENE — The  assembly  room  of  the  main  building  of 
the  sanatorium — early  in  the  morning  of  a  fine 
day  in  June,  four  months  later.  The  room  is 
large,  light  and  airy,  painted  a  "fresh  white. 
On  the  left  forward,  an  armchair.  Farther 
back,  a  door  opening  on  the  main  hall.  To  the 
rear  of  this  door  a  pianola  on  a  raised  plat 
form.  In  back  of  the  pianola,  a  door  leading 
into  the  office.  In  the  rear  wall,  a  long  series 
of  French  windows  lookmg  out  on  the  lawn, 
with  wooded  hills  in  the  far  background. 
Shrubs  in  flower  grow  immediately  outside  the 
windows.  Inside,  there  is  a  row  of  potted 
plants.  In  the  right  wall,  rear,  four  windows. 
Farther  forward,  a  long,  well-filled  bookcase, 
and  a  doorway  leading  into  the  dmmg  room. 
Following  the  walls,  but  about  five  feet  out  from 
them  a  stiff  line  of  chairs  placed  closely  against 
each  other  forms  a  sort  of  right-angled  audit' 
orium  of  which  the  large,  square  table  that 
stands  at  center,  forward,  would  seem  to  be  the 
stage. 

57 


58  THE  STRAW 

From  the  dining  room  comes  the  clatter  of 
dishes,  the  confused  murmur  of  many  voices, 
male  and  female — all  the  mingled  sounds  of  a 
crowd  of  people  at  a  meal. 

After  the  curtain  rises,  DOCTOR  STANTON 
enters  from  the  hall,  followed  by  a  visitor,  MR. 
SLOAN,  and  the  assistant  physician,  DOCTOR 
SIMMS.  DOCTOR  STANTON  is  a  handsome  man 
of  forty-five  or  so  with  a  grave,  care-lined, 
studious  face  lightened  by  a  kindly,  humorous 
smile.  His  gray  eyes,  saddened  by  the  suffer 
ing  they  have  witnessed,  have  the  sympathetic 
quality  of  real  understanding.  The  look  they 
give  is  full  of  companionship,  the  courage-re 
newing,  human  companionship  of  a  hope  which 
is  shared.  He  speaks  with  a  slight  Southern 
accent,  soft  and  slurring.  DOCTOR  SIMMS  is  a 
tall,  angular  young  man  with  a  long,  sallow 
face  and  a  sheepish,  self-conscious  grin.  MR. 
SLOAN  is  fifty,  short  and  stout,  well  dressed — 
one  of  the  successful  business  men  whose  en 
dowments  have  made  the  HUl  Farm  a  possi 
bility. 

STANTON — [As  they  enter.'}  This  is  what  you 
might  call  the  general  assembly  room,  Mr.  Sloan — 
where  the  patients  of  both  sexes  are  allowed  to  con 
gregate  together  after  meals,  for  diets,  and  in  the 
evening. 

SLOAN — [Looking  around  him.]  Couldn't  be 
more  pleasant,  I  must  say — light  and  airy.  [He 


THE  STRAW  59 

walks  where  he  can  take  a  peep  into  the  dining 
room.]  Ah,  they're  all  at  breakfast,  I  see. 

STANTON — [Smiling .]  Yes,  and  with  no  lack  of 
appetite,  let  me 'tell  you.  [With  a  laugh  of  proud 
satisfaction.]  They'd  sure  eat  us  out  of  house  and 
home  at  one  sitting,  if  we'd  give  them  the  oppor 
tunity.  [To  his  assistant.]  Wouldn't  they,  Doc 
tor? 

SIMMS — [With  his  abashed  grin.]  You  bet  they 
would,  sir. 

SLOAN — [With  a  smile.]  That's  fine.  [With  a 
nod  toward  the  dining  room.]  The  ones  in  there  are 
the  sure  cures,  aren't  they? 

STANTON — [A  shadow  coming  over  his  face.] 
Strictly  speaking,  there  are  no  sure  cures  in  this 
disease,  Mr.  Sloan.  When  we  permit  a  patient  to 
return  to  take  up  his  or  her  activities  in  the  world, 
the  patient  is  what  we  call  an  arrested  case.  The 
disease  is  overcome,  quiescent ;  the  wound  is  healed 
over.  It's  then  up  to  the  patient  to  so  take  care 
of  himself  that  this  condition  remains  permanent. 
It  isn't  hard  for  them  to  do  this,  usually.  Just  or 
dinary,  bull-headed  common  sense — added  to  what 
they've  learned  here — is  enough  for  their  safety. 
And  the  precautions  we  teach  them  to  take  don't 
diminish  their  social  usefulness  in  the  slightest, 
either,  as  I  can  prove  by  our  statistics  of  former 
patients.  [With  a  smile.]  It's  rather  early  in  the 
morning  for  statistics,  though. 

MR.  SLOAN — [With  a  wave  of  the  hand.]     Oh, 


60  THE  STRAW 

you  needn't.  Your  reputation  in  that  respect.  Doc 
tor [STANTON  inclines  his  head  in  acknowl 
edgment.  SLOAN  jerks  his  thumb  toward  the  dining 
room.]  But  the  ones  in  there  are  getting  well, 
aren't  they? 

STANTON — To  all  appearances,  yes.  You  don't 
dare  swear  to  it,  though.  Sometimes,  just  when  a 
case  looks  most  favorably,  there's  a  sudden,  un 
foreseen  breakdown  and  they  have  to  be  sent  back 
to  bed,  or,  if  it's  very  serious,  back  to  the  Infirmary 
again.  These  are  the  exceptions,  however,  not  the 
rule.  You  can  bank  on  most  of  those  eaters  being 
out  in  the  world  and  usefully  employed  within  six 
months. 

SLOAN — You  couldn't  say  more  than  that,  [Ab 
ruptly.]  But — the  unfortunate  ones — do  you  have 
many  deaths? 

STANTON — [With  a  frown.]  No.  We're  under 
a  very  hard,  almost  cruel  imperative  which  prevents 
that.  If,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  a  case  shows  no 
response  to  treatment,  continues  to  go  down  hill — 
if,  in  a  word,  it  seems  hopeless — we  send  them  away, 
to  one  of  the  State  Farms  if  they  have  no  private 
means.  [Apologetically.]  You  see,  this  sanatorium 
is  overcrowded  and  has  a  long  waiting  list  most  of 
the  time  of  others  who  demand  their  chance  for  life. 
We  have  to  make  places  for  them.  We  have  no 
time  to  waste  on  incurables.  There  are  other  places 
for  them — and  sometimes,  too,  a  change  is  beneficial 
and  they  pick  up  in  new  surroundings.  You  never 


THE  STRAW  61 

can  tell.  But  we're  bound  by  the  rule.  It  may  seem 
cruel — but  it's  as  near  justice  to  all  concerned  as 
we  can  come. 

SLOAN — [Soberly.]  I  see.  [His  eyes  -fall  on  the 
pianola — in  surprise.]  Ah — a  piano. 

STANTON — [Replying  to  the  other's  thought.] 
Yes,  the  patients  play  and  sing.  [With  a  smile] 
If  you'd  call  the  noise  they  make  by  those  terms. 
,They'd  dance,  too,  if  we  permitted  it.  There's  only 
one  song  taboo — Home,  Sweet  Home.  We  forbid 
that — for  obvious  reasons. 

SLOAN — I  see.  [With  a  final  look  arownd.]  Did 
I  understand  you  to  say  this  is  the  only  place  where 
the  sexes  are  permitted  to  mingle? 

STANTON — Yes,  sir. 

SLOAN — [With  a  smile.]  Not  much  chance  for  a 
love  affair,  then. 

STANTON — [Seriously]  We  do  our  best  to  pre 
vent  them.  We  even  have  a  strict  rule  which  allows 
us  to  step  in  and  put  a  stop  to  any  intimacy  which 
grows  beyond  the  casual.  People  up  here,  Mr. 
Sloan,  are  expected  to  put  aside  all  ideas  except  the 
one — getting  well. 

SLOAN — [Somewhat  embarrassed]  A  damn  good 
rule,  too,  I  should  say,  under  the  circumstances. 

STANTON — [TFi£/t  a  laugh]  Yes,  we're  strictly 
anti-Cupid,  sir,  from  top  to  bottom.  [Turning  to 
the  door  to  the  hall]  And  now,  if  you  don't  mind, 
Mr.  Sloan,  I'm  going  to  turn  you  footloose  to  wander 
about  the  grounds  on  an  unconducted  tour.  Today 


62  THE  STRAW 

is  my  busy  morning — Saturday.  We  weigh  each 
patient  immediately  after  breakfast. 

SLOAN — Every  week? 

STANTON^Every  Saturday.  You  see  we  depend 
on  fluctuations  in  weight  to  tell  us  a  lot  about  the 
patient's  condition.  If  they  gain,  or  stay  at  normal, 
all's  usually  well.  If  they  lose  week  after  week  with 
out  any  reason  we  can  definitely  point  to,  we  keep 
careful  watch.  It's  a  sign  that  something's  wrong. 
We're  forewarned  by  it  and  on  our  guard. 

SLOAN — [With  a  smile. ]  Well,  I'm  certainly 
learning  things.  [He  turns  to  the  door.]  And  you 
just  shoo  me  off  wherever  you  please  and  go  on  with 
the  good  work.  I'll  be  glad  of  a  ramble  in  the  open 
on  such  a  glorious  morning. 

STANTON — After  the  weighing  is  over,  sir,  I'll  be 

free  to [His  words  are  lost  as  the  three  go  out. 

A  moment  later,  EILEEN  enters  from  the  dining  room. 
She  has  grown  stouter,  her  face  has  more  of  a 
healthy,  out-of-door  color,  but  there  is  still  about 
her  the  suggestion  of  being  worn  down  by  a  burden 
too  oppressive  for  her  courage.  She  is  dressed  in 
shirtwaist  and  dark  skirt.  She  goes  to  the  armchair, 
left  forward,  and  sinks  down  on  it.  She  is  evidently 
in  a  state  of  nervous  depression;  she  twists  her  -fin 
gers  together  in  her  lap;  her  eyes  stare  sadly  before 
her;  she  clenches  her  upper  lip  with  her  teeth  to  pre 
vent  its  trembling.  She  has  hardly  regained  con 
trol  over  herself  when  STEPHEN  MURRAY  comes  in 
hurriedly  from  the  dining  room  and,  seeing  her  at 


THE  STRAW  63 

his  first  glance,  walks  quickly  over  to  her  chair.  He 
is  the  picture  of  health,  his  figure  has  filled  out  sol 
idly,  his  tanned  face  beams  with  suppressed  exulta 
tion.] 

MURRAY — [Excitedly. ]  Eileen!  I  saw  you  leave 
your  table.  I've  something  to  tell  you.  I  didn't  get 
a  chance  last  night  after  the  mail  came.  You'd 
gone  to  the  cottage.  Just  listen,  Eileen — it's  too 
good  to  be  true — but  on  that  mail — guess  what? 

EILEEN — [Forgetting  her  depression — with  an  ex 
cited  smile.'}  I  know !  You've  sold  your  story ! 

MURRAY — [Triumphantly.]  Go  to  the  head  of 
the  class.  What  d'you  know  about  that  for  luck! 
My  first,  too — and  only  the  third  magazine  I  sent 
it  to !  [He  cuts  a  joyful  caper. ~\ 

EILEEN — [Happily.']  Isn't  that  wonderful, 
Stephen!  But  I  knew  all  the  time  you  would.  The 
story's  so  good. 

MURRAY — Well,  you  might  have  known  but  I 
didn't  think  there  was  a  chance  in  the  world.  And 

as  for  being  good [With  superior  air] • 

wait  till  I  turn  loose  with  the  real  big  ones,  the 
kind  I'm  going  to  write.  Then  I'll  make  them  sit  up 
and  take  notice.  They  can't  stop  me  now.  This 
money  gives  me  a  chance  to  sit  back  and  do  what  I 
please  for  a  while.  And  I  haven't  told  you  the  best 
part.  The  editor  wrote  saying  how  much  he  liked 
the  yarn  and  asked  me  for  more  of  the  same  kind. 

EILEEN — And  you've  the  three  others  about  the 


64  THE  STRAW 

same  person — just  as  good,  too!  Why,  you'll  sell 
them  all!  [She  claps  her  hands  delightedly.] 

MURRAY — And  I  can  send  them  out  right  away. 
They're  all  typed,  thanks  to  you.  That's  what's 
brought  me  luck,  I  know.  I  never  had  a  bit  by  my 
self.  [Then,  after  a  quick  glance  around  to  make 
sure  they  are  alone,  he  bends  down  and  kisses  her.~\ 
There !  A  token  of  gratitude — even  if  it  is  against 
the  rules. 

EILEEN — [Flushing — with  timid  happiness.]  Ste 
phen  !  You  mustn't !  They'll  see. 

MURRAY — [Boldly.]     Let  them! 

EILEEN — But  you  know — they've  warned  us 
against  being  so  much  together,  already. 

MURRAY — Let  them !  We'll  be  out  of  this  prison 
soon.  [EILEEN  shakes  her  head  sadly  but  he  does 
not  notice.]  Oh,  I  wish  you  could  leave  when  I  do. 
We'd  have  some  celebration  together. 

EILEEN — [Her  lips  trembling.]  I  was  thinking 
last  night — that  you'd  soon  be  going  away.  You 
look  so  well.  Do  you  think — they'll  let  you  go — 
soon  ? 

MURRAY — You  bet  I  do.  I'm  bound  to  go  now. 
It's  ridiculous  keeping  me  here  when  I'm  as  healthy 
as  a  pig.  I  caught  Stanton  in  the  hall  last  night 
and  asked  him  if  I  could  go. 

EILEEN — [Anxiously.]     What  did  he  say? 

MURRAY — He  only  smiled  and  said:  "We'll  see 
if  you  gain  weight  tomorrow."  As  if  that  mattered 
now!  Why,  I'm  way  above  normal  as  it  is!  But 


THE  STRAW  65 

you  know  Stanton — always  putting  you  off.  But  I 
could  tell  by  the  way  he  said  it  he'd  be  willing  to 
consider 

EILEEN — [Slowly.]  Then — if  you  gain  to 
day 

MURRAY — He'll  let  me  go.  Yes,  I  know  he  will. 
I'm  going  to  insist  on  it. 

EILEEN — Then — you'll  leave ? 

MURRAY — Right  away.  The  minute  I  can  get 
packed. 

EILEEN — [Trying  to  force  a  smile]  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad — for  your  sake ;  but — I'm  selfish — it'll  be  so 
lonely  here  without  you. 

MURRAY — [Consolingly]  You'll  be  going  away 
yourself  before  long.  [EILEEN  shakes  her  head.  He 
goes  on  without  noticing,  wrapped  m  his  own  suc 
cess]  Oh,  Eileen,  you  can't  imagine  all  it, opens  up 
for  me — selling  that  story.  I  don't  have  to  go  back 
home  to  stagnate.  I  can  go  straight  to  New  York, 
and  live,  and  meet  real  people  who  are  doing  things. 
I  can  take  my  time,  and  try  and  do  the  work  I  hope 
to.  [Feelingly]  You  don't  know  how  grateful  I 
am  to  you,  Eileen — how  you've  helped  me.  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  just  the  typing,  I  mean  your  encourage 
ment,  your  faith!  I'd  never  have  had  guts  enough 
to  stick  to  it  myself.  The  stories  would  never  have 
been  written  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 

EILEEN — [Choking  back  a  sob]  I  didn't  do — 
anything. 

MURRAY — [Staring    'down    at    her — with    rough 


66  THE  STRAW 

kindliness.}  Here,  here,  that'll  never  do!  You're 
not  weeping  about  it,  are  you,  silly?  [He  pats  her 
on  the  shoulder.}  What's  the  matter,  Eileen?  You 
didn't  eat  a  thing  this  morning.  I  was  watching  you. 
[With  kindly  severity.}  That's  no  way  to  gain, 
weight,  you  know.  You'll  have  to  feed  up.  Do  you 
hear  what  your  guardian  commands,  eh? 

EILEEN — [TFi£/i  dull  hopelessness.}  I  know  I'll 
lose  again.  I've  been  losing  steadily  the  past  three 
weeks. 

MURRAY — Here!  Don't  you  dare  talk  that  way! 
I  won't  stand  for  it.  Why,  you've  been  picking  up 
wonderfully — until  just  lately.  You've  made  such 
a  game  fight  for  four  months.  Even  the  old  Doc 
has  told  you  how  much  he  admired  your  pluck,  and 
how  much  better  you  were  getting.  You're  not  go 
ing  to  quit  now,  are  you? 

EILEEN — [Despairingly.}  Oh,  I  don't  care!  I 
don't  care — now. 

MURRAY — Now?  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 
What's  happened  to  make  things  any  different? 

EILEEN — [Evasively.}  Oh — nothing.  Don't  ask 
me,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [With  sudden  anger.}  I  don't  have  to 
ask  you.  I  can  guess.  Another  letter  from  home — 
or  from  that  ass,  eh? 

EILEEN — [Shaking  her  head.}  No,  it  isn't  that. 
[She  looks  at  him  as  if  imploring  him  to  compre 
hend.} 

MURRAY — [Furiously.}      Of  course,  you'd   deny 


THE  STRAW  67 

it.  You  always  do.  But  don't  you  suppose  I've  got 
eyes?  It's  been  the  same  damn  thing  all  the  time 
you've  been  here.  After  every  nagging  letter — 
thank  God  they  don't  write  often  any  more! — 
you've  been  all  in;  and  after  their  Sunday  visits — 
you  can  thank  God  they've  been  few,  too — you're 
utterly  knocked  out.  It's  a  shame!  The  selfish 


swine ! 


EILEEN — Stephen ! 

MURRAY — [Relentlessly.]  Don't  be  sentimental, 
Eileen.  You  know  it's  true.  From  what  you've  told 
me  of  their  letters,  their  visits, — from  what  I've  seen 
and  suspected — they've  done  nothing  but  worry  and 
torment  you  and  do  their  best  to  keep  you  from  get 
ting  well. 

EILEEN — [Faintly]     You're  not  fair,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — Rot !  When  it  isn't  your  father  grum 
bling  about  expense,  it's  the  kids,  or  that  stupid 
housekeeper,  or  that  slick  Aleck,  Nicholls,  with  his 
cowardly  lies.  Which  is  it  this  time? 

EILEEN — [Pitifully]     None  of  them. 

MURRAY — [Explosively]  But  him,  especially — 
the  dirty  cad !  Oh,  I've  got  a  rich  notion  to  pay  a 
call  on  that  gentleman  when  I  leave  and  tell  him  what 
I  think  of  him. 

EILEEN — [Quickly]  No — you  mustn't  ever! 

He's  not  to  blame.  If  you  knew [She  stops, 

lowering  her  eyes  in  confusion] 

MURRAY — [Roughly]  Knew  what?  You  make 
me  sick,  Eileen — always  finding  excuses  for  him.  I 


68  THE  STRAW 

never  could  understand  what  a  girl  like  you  could 
see •  But  what's  the  use?  I've  said  all  this  be 
fore.  You're  wasting  yourself  on  a [Rudely.] 

Love  must  be  blind.  And  yet  you  say  you  don't  love 
him,  really? 

EILEEN — [Shaking  Tier  head — helplessly.]  But  I 
do — like  Fred.  We've  been  good  friends  so  many 
years.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  him — his  pride 

MURRAY — That's  the  same  as  answering  no  to  my 
question.  Then,  if  you  don't  love  him,  why  don't 

you  write  and  tell  him  to  go  to break  it  off? 

[EILEEN  bows  her  head  but  doesn't  reply.  Irritated, 
MURRAY  continues  brutally.]  Are  you  afraid  it 
would  break  his  heart?  Don't  be  a  fool!  The  only 
way  you  could  do  that  would  be  to  deprive  him  of 
his  meals. 

EILEEN — [Springmg  to  her  -feet — distractedly] 
Please  stop,  Stephen !  You're  cruel !  And  you've 
been  so  kind — the  only  real  friend  I've  had  up  here. 
Don't  spoil  it  all  now. 

MURRAY — [Remorsefully.]  I'm  sorry,  Eileen.  I 
was  only  talking.  I  won't  say  another  word.  [Irri 
tably]  Still,  someone  ought  to  say  or  do  something 
to  put  a  stop  to 

EILEEN — [With  a  broken  laugh.]  Never  mind. 
Everything  will  stop — soon,  now ! 

MURRAY — [Suspiciously.]     What  do  you  mean? 

EILEEN — [With  an  attempt  at  a  careless  tone.] 

Nothing.  If  you  can't  see [She  turns  to  him 

with  sudden  intensity]  Oh,  Stephen,  if  you  only 


THE  STRAW  69 

knew  how  wrong  you  are  about  everything  you've 
said.  It's  all  true;  but  it  isn't  that — any  of  it — 
any  more that's Oh,  I  can't  tell  you ! 

MURRAY — [With  great  interest. ,]  Please  do, 
Eileen ! 

EILEEN — [With  a  helpless  laugh. ~\     No. 

MURRAY — Please  tell  me  what  it  is !  Let  me  help 
you. 

EILEEN — No.     It  wouldn't  be  any  use,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [Offended.]  Why  do  you  say  that? 
.Haven't  I  helped  before? 

EILEEN — Yes — but  this 

MURRAY — Come  now !    'Fess  up !    What  is  "this"  ? 

EILEEN — No.  I  couldn't  speak  of  it  here,  any 
way.  They'll  all  be  coming  out  soon. 

MURRAY — [Insistently]     Then  when?     Where? 

EILEEN — Oh,  I  don't  know — perhaps  never,  no 
where.  I  don't  know Sometime  before  you 

leave,  maybe. 

MURRAY — But  I  may  go  tomorrow  morning — if 
I  gain  weight  and  Stanton  lets  me. 

EILEEN — [Sadly.']  Yes,  I  was  forgetting — you 
were  going  right  away.  [Dully. ~\  Then  nowhere, 
I  suppose — never.  [Glancmg  toward  the  dmmg 
room.]  They're  all  getting  up.  Let's  not  talk  about 
it  any  more — now. 

MURRAY — [Stubbornly.]  But  you'll  tell  me  la 
ter,  Eileen?  You  must. 

EILEEN — [Vaguely.]  Perhaps.  It  depends 

[The  patients,  about  forty  in  number,  straggle  in 


70  THE  STRAW 

from  the  dining  room  by  twos  and  threes,  chatting  in 
low  tones.  The  men  and  women  with  few  exceptions 
separate  into  two  groups,  the  women  congregating 
in  the  left  right  angle  of  chairs,  the  men  sitting  or 
standing  in  the  right  right  angle.  In  appearance, 
most  of  the  patients  are  tanned,  healthy,  and  cheerful 
looking.  The  great  majority  are  under  middle  age. 
Their  clothes  are  of  the  cheap,  ready-made  variety. 
They  are  all  distinctly  of  the  wage-earning  class. 
They  might  well  be  a  crowd  of  cosmopolitan  factory 
workers  gathered  together  after  a  summer  vacation. 
A  hollow-chestedness  and  a  tendency  to  round 
shoulders  may  be  detected  as  a  common  characteris 
tic.  A  general  air  of  tension,  marked  by  frequent 
bursts  of  laughter  in  too  high  a-  key,  seems  to  per 
vade  the  throng.  MURRAY  and  EILEEN,  as  if  to  avoid 
contact  with  the  others,  come  over  to  the  right  in 
front  of  the  dmmg-room  door.] 

MURRAY — [In  a  low  voice.]  Listen  to  them  laugh. 
Did  you  ever  notice — perhaps  it's  my  imagination 
• — how  forced  they  act  on  Saturday  mornings  before 
they're  weighed? 

EILEEN — [Dully.]     No. 

MURRAY — Can't  you  tell  me  that  secret  now?  No 
one'll  hear. 

EILEEN — [Vehemently.]  No,  no,  how  could  I? 
Don't  speak  of  it !  [A  sudden  silence  falls  on  all  the 
groups  at  once.  Their  eyes,  by  a  common  impulse, 
turn  quickly  toward  the  door  to  the  hall.] 

A  WOMAN — [Nervously — as  if  this  moments  si- 


THE  STRAW  71 

lent  pause  oppressed  her.]  Play  something,  Peters. 
They  ain't  coming  yet.  [PETERS,  a  stupid-looking 
young  fellow  with  a  sly,  twisted  smirk  which  gives 
him  the  appearance  of  perpetually  winking  his  eye, 
detaches  himself  from  a  group  on  the  right.  Att 
join  in  with  urgmg  exclamations:  "Go  on,  Peters! 
Go  to  it!  Pedal  up,  Pete!  Give  us  a  rag!  That's 
the  boy,  Peters!"  etc.] 

PETERS — Sure,  if  I  got  time.  [He  goes  to  the 
pianola  and  puts  in  a  roll.  The  mingled  conversa* 
tion  and  laughter  bursts  forth  again  as  he  sits  on 
the  bench  and  starts  pedaling.] 

MURRAY — [Disgustedly.]  It's  sure  good  to  think 
I  won't  have  to  listen  to  that  old  tin-pan  being 
banged  much  longer!  [The  music  interrupts  him — 
a  quick  rag.  The  patients  brighten,  hum,  whistle, 
sway  their  heads  or  tap  their  feet  in  time  to  the  tune. 
DOCTOR  STANTON  and  DOCTOR  SIMMS  appear  in  the 
doorway  from  the  hall.  All  eyes  are  turned  on  them.] 

STANTON — [Raising  his  voice.]  They  all  seem  to 
be  here,  Doctor.  We  might  as  well  start.  [MRS. 
TURNER,  the  matron,  comes  in  behind  them — a  stout, 
motherly,  capable-looking  woman  with  grey  hair. 
She  hears  STANTON'S  remark.] 

MRS.  TURNER — And  take  temperatures  after, 
Doctor? 

STANTON — Yes,  Mrs.  Turner.  I  think  that's  bet 
ter  today. 

MRS.  TURNER — All  right,  Doctor.  [STANTON  and 
the  assistant  go  out.  MRS.  TURNER  advances  a  step 


72  THE  STRAW 

or  so  into  the  room  and  looks  from  one  group  of  pa 
tients  to  the  other,  inclining  her  head  and  smiling 
benevolently.  All  force  smiles  and  nod  m  recogni 
tion  of  her  greeting.  PETERS,  at  the  pianola,  lets 
the  music  slow  down,  glancing  questionmgly  at  the 
matron  to  see  if  she  is  going  to  order  it  stopped. 
Then,  encouraged  by  her  smile,  his  feet  pedal  harder 
than  ever.~\ 

MURRAY — Look  at  old  Mrs.  Grundy's  eyes  pinned 
on  us !  She'll  accuse  us  of  being  too  familiar  again, 
the  old  wench ! 

EILEEN — Ssshh.  You're  wrong.  She's  looking  at 
me,  not  at  us. 

MURRAY — At  you?  Why? 

EILEEN — I  ran  a  temperature  yesterday.  It  must 
have  been  over  a  hundred  last  night. 

MURRAY — [With  consoling  scepticism.]  You're 
always  suffering  for  trouble,  Eileen.  How  do  you 
know  you  ran  a  temp?  You  didn't  see  the  stick,  I 
suppose? 

EILEEN— -No — but — I  could  tell.  I  felt  feverish 
and  chilly.  It  must  have  been  way  up. 

MURRAY — Bosh!  If  it  was  you'd  have  been  sent 
to  bed. 

EILEEN — That's  why  she's  looking  at  me.  \_Pit- 
eously.~\  Oh,  I  do  hope  I  won't  be  sent  back  to  bed  I 
I  don't  know  what  I'd  do.  If  I  could  only  gain  this 
morning.  If  my  temp  has  only  gone  down !  [Hope 
lessly.']  But  I  feel—  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink- 
thinking' — 


THE  STRAW  73 

MURRAY — [Roughly. ]  You'll  persuade  yourself 
you've  got  leprosy  in  a  second.  Don't  be  a  nut ! 
It's  all  imagination,  I  tell  you.  You'll  gain.  Wait 
and  see  if  you  don't.  [EILEEN  shakes  her  head.  A 
metallic  rumble  and  jangle  comes  from  the  hallway. 
Everyone  turns  m  that  direction  with  nervous  ex 
pectancy.] 

MRS.    TURNER — [Admonishingly .]      Mr.     Peters  1 

PETERS — Yes,  ma'am.  [He  stops  playing  and  re- 
joins  the  group  of  men  on  the  right.  In  the  midst 
of  a  silence  broken  only  by  hushed  murmurs  of  con 
versation,  DOCTOR  STANTON  appears  m  the  hall 
doorway.  He  turns  to  help  his  assistant  wheel  in  a 
Fairbanks  scale  on  castors.  They  place  the  scale 
against  the  wall  immediately  to  the  rear  of  the  door 
way.  DOCTOR  SIMMS  adjusts  it  to  a  perfect  bal 
ance.] 

DOCTOR  STANTON — [Takes  a  pencil  from  his 
pocket  and  opens  the  record  book  he  has  m  his 
hand]  All  ready,  Doctor? 

DOCTOR  SIMMS — Just  a  second,  sir.  [A  chorus  of 
coughs  comes  from  the  impatient  crowd,  and  hand 
kerchiefs  are  hurriedly  produced  to  shield  mouths.] 

MURRAY — [With  a  nervous  smile]  Well,  we're  all 
set.  Here's  hoping! 

EILEEN — You'll  gain,  I'm  sure  you  will.  You 
look  so  well. 

MURRAY — Oh — I — I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself, 
I'm  a  sure  thing.  I  was  betting  on  you.  I've  sim 
ply  got  to  gain  today,  when  so  much  depends  on  it. 


74  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — Yes,  I  hope  you [She  falters 

brokenly  and  turns  away  from  him.'] 

DOCTOR  SIMMS — [Straightening  up.~]  All  ready, 
Doctor. 

STANTON — [Nods  and  glances  at  his  book — with 
out  raising  his  voice — distinctly.']  Mrs.  Abner.  [A 
middle-aged  woman  comes  and  gets  on  the  scale. 
SIMMS  adjusts  it  to  her  weight  of  the  previous  week 
which  STANTON  reads  to  him  from  the  book  in  a  low 
voice,  and  weighs  her.] 

MURRAY — [With  a  relieved  sigh.~]  They're  off. 
[Noticing  EILEEN'S  downcast  head  and  air  of  de 
jection.']  Here!  Buck  up,  Eileen!  Old  Lady 
Grundy's  watching  you — and  it's  your  turn  in  a 
second.  [EILEEN  raises  her  head  and  forces  a  fright 
ened  smile.  MRS.  ABNER  gets  down  off  the  scale  with 
a  pleased  grin.  She  has  evidently  gained.  She  rejoins 
the  group  of  women,  chattering  volubly  in  low  tones. 
Her  exultant  "gained  half  a  pound"  can  be  heard. 
The  other  women  smile  their  perfunctory  congratu 
lations,  their  eyes  absent-minded,  intent  on  their  own 
worries.  STANTON  writes  down  the  weight  in  the 
book.~\ 

STANTON — Miss  Bailey.  [A  young  girl  goes  to 
the  scales.] 

MURRAY — Bailey  looks  badly,  doesn't  she? 

EILEEN — [Her  lips  trembling.']  She's  been  los 
ing,  too. 

MURRAY — Well,  you're  going  to  gain  today.  Re 
member,  now! 


THE  STRAW  75 

EILEEN — [With  a  feeble  smile.']  I'll  try  to  obey 
your  orders.  [Miss  BAILEY  gets  down  off  the  scales. 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  despondency  although  she  tries 
to  make  a  brave  face  of  it,  forcing  a  laugh-  as  she 
joins  the  women.  They  stare  at  her  with  pitying 
looks  and  murmur  consoling  phrases. ] 

EILEEN — She's  lost  again.  Oh,  I  wish  I  didn't 
have  to  get  weighed 

STANTON — Miss  Carmody.  [EILEEN  starts  ner 
vously.] 

MURRAY — [As  she  leaves  him.~\  Remember  now! 
Break  the  scales !  [She  walks  quickly  to  the  scales, 
trying  to  assume  an  air  of  defiant  indifference.  The 
balance  stays  down  as  she  steps  up.  EILEEN'S  face 
shows  her  despair  at  this.  SIMMS  weighs  her  and 
gives  the  poundage  in  a  low  voice  to  STANTON. 
EILEEN  steps  down  mechanically,  then  hesitates  as 
if  not  knowing  where  to  turn,  her  anguished  eyes 
flitting  from  one  group  to  another.] 

MURRAY — [Sav agely. ]  Damn!  [DOCTOR  STAN- 
TON  writes  the  figures  in  his  book,  glances  sharply  at 
EILEEN,  and  then  nods  significantly  to  MRS.  TURNER 
who  is  standing  beside  him.] 

STANTON — [Calling  the  next.]  Miss  Doeffler. 
[Another  woman  comes  to  be  weighed.] 

MRS.  TURNER — Miss  Carmody!  Will  you  come 
here  a  moment,  please? 

EILEEN — [Her  face  growing  very  pale.]  Yes, 
Mrs.  Turner.  [The  heads  of  the  different  groups 
bend  together.  Their  eyes  follow  EILEEN  as  they 


76  THE  STRAW 

whisper.  MRS.  TURNER  leads  her  down  front,  left.  Be 
hind  them  the  weighing  of  the  women  continues 
briskly.  The  great  majority  have  gained.  Those  who 
have  not  have  either  remained  stationary  or  lost  a 
negligible  fraction  of  a  pound.  So,  as  the  weighing 
proceeds,  the  general  air  of  smiling  satisfaction  rises 
among  the  groups  of  women.  Some  of  them,  their  or 
deal  over,  go  out  through  the  hall  doorway  by  twos 
and  threes  with  suppressed  laughter  and  chatter. 
As  they  pass  behind  EILEEN  they  glance  at  her  with 
pitying  curiosity.  DOCTOR  STANTON'S  voice  is  heard 
at  regular  intervals  calling  the  names  in  alphabetical 
order:  Mrs.  Elbing,  Miss  Finch,  Miss  Grimes,  Miss 
Haines,  Miss  Hayes,  Miss  Julner,  Miss  Linowski, 
Mrs.  Marini,  Mrs.  McCoy,  Miss  McElroy,  Miss  Nel 
son,  Mrs.  Nott,  Mrs.  O'Brien,  Mrs.  Olson,  Miss  Paul, 
Miss  Petrovski,  Mrs.  Quinn,  Miss  Robersi,  Mrs. 
S  tat  tier,  Miss  Unger.~\ 

MRS.  TURNER — [Putting  her  hand  on  EILEEN'S 
shoulder — kindly.  ]  You're  not  looking  so  well 
lately,  my  dear,  do  you  know  it? 

EILEEN — [Bravely. ]  I  feel — fine.  [Her  eyes,  as 
if  looking  for  encouragement,  seek  MURRAY  who  is 
staring  at  her  worriedly.] 

MRS.  TURNER — [Gently .]  You  lost  weight  again, 
you  know. 

EILEEN — I  know — but 

MRS.  TURNER — This  is  the  fourth  week. 

EILEEN— I I  know  it  is 

MRS.  TURNER — I've  been  keeping  my  eye  on  you. 


THE  STRAW  77 

You  seem — worried.  Are  you  upset  about — some 
thing  we  don't  know? 

EILEEN- — [Quickly.]  No,  no!  I  haven't  slept 
much  lately.  That  must  be  it. 

MRS.  TURNER — Are  you  worrying  about  your 
condition?  Is  that  what  keeps  you  awake? 

EILEEN — No. 

MRS.  TURNER — You're  sure  it's  not  that? 

EILEEN — Yes,  I'm  sure  it's  not,  Mrs.  Turner. 

MRS.  TURNER — I  was  going  to  tell  you  if  you 
were:  Don't  do  it!  You  can't  expect  it  to  be  all 
smooth  sailing.  Even  the  most  favorable  cases  have 
to  expect  these  little  setbacks.  A  few  days'  rest  in 
bed  will  start  you  on  the  right  trail  again. 

EILEEN — [In  anguish,  although  she  has  realized 
this  was  coming.]  Bed?  Go  back  to  bed?  Oh,  Mrs. 
Turner ! 

MRS.  TURNER — [Gently.]  Yes,  my  dear,  Doctor 
Stanton  thinks  it  best.  So  when  you  go  back  to 
your  cottage 

EILEEN — Oh,  please — not  today — not  right  away ! 

MRS.  TURNER — You  had  a  temperature  and  a  high 
pulse  yesterday,  didn't  you  realize  it?  And  this 
morning  you  look  quite  feverish.  [She  tries  to  put 
her  hand  on  EILEEN'S  -forehead  but  the  latter  steps 
away  defensively.] 

EILEEN — It's  only — not  sleeping  last  night.  I 
was  nervous.  Oh,  I'm  sure  it'll  go  away. 

MRS.  TURNER — [Consolingly.]  When  you  lie 
still  and  have  perfect  rest,  of  course  it  will. 


78  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — [With  a  longing  look  over  at  MURRAY.] 
But  not  today — please,  Mrs.  Turner. 

MRS.  TURNER — [Looking  at  her  keenly.]  There 
is  something  upsetting  you.  You've  something  on 
your  mind  that  you  can't  tell  me,  is  that  it? 
[EILEEN  maintains  a  stubborn  silence.]  But  think 
—can't  you  tell  me?  [With  a  kindly  smile.]  I'm 
used  to  other  people's  troubles.  I've  been  playing 
mother-confessor  to  the  patients  for  years  now,  and 
I  think  I've  usually  been  able  to  help  them.  Can't 
you  confide  in  me,  child?  [EILEEN  drops  her  eyes 
but  remains  silent.  MRS.  TURNER  glances  mean 
ingly  over  at  MURRAY  who  is  watching  them  when 
ever  he  thinks  the  matron  is  not  aware  of  it — a  note 
of  sharp  rebuke  in  her  voice.]  I  think  I  can  guess 
your  secret,  my  dear,  even  if  you're  too  stubborn  to 
tell.  This  setback  is  your  own  fault.  You've  let 
other  notions  become  more  important  to  you  than 
the  idea  of  getting  well.  And  you've  no  excuse  for 
it.  After  I  had  to  warn  you  a  month  ago,  I  ex 
pected  that  silliness  to  stop  instantly. 

EILEEN — [Her  face  flushed — protesting.]  There 
never  was  anything.  Nothing  like  that  has  anything 
to  do  with  it. 

MRS.  TURNER — [Sceptically.]  What  is  it  that 
has,  then? 

EILEEN — [Lymg  determinedly]  It's  my  family. 

They  keep  writing — and  worrying  me — and 

That's  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Turner. 

MRS.  TURNER — [Not  exactly  knowing  whether  to 


THE  STRAW  79 

believe  this  or  not — probing  the  girl  with  her  eyes] 
Your  father? 

EILEEN — Yes,  all  of  them.  [Suddenly  seeing  a 
way  to  discredit  all  of  the  matron's  suspicions — ex 
citedly.]  And  principally  the  young  man  I'm  en 
gaged  to — the  one  who  came  to  visit  me  several 
times 

MRS.  TURNER — [Surprised]  So — you're  engaged? 
[EILEEN  nods.  MRS.  TURNER  immediately  dis 
misses  her  suspicions.]  Oh,  pardon  me.  I  didn't 

know  that,  you  see,  or  I  wouldn't [She  pats 

EILEEN  on  the  shoulder  comfortingly]  Never  mind. 
You'll  tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  you? 

EILEEN — [Desperately]  Yes.  [She  seems  about 
to  go  on  but  the  matron  interrupts  her] 

MRS.  TURNER — Oh,  not  here,  my  dear.  Not  now. 
Come  to  my  room — let  me  see — I'll  be  busy  all  morn 
ing — sometime  this  afternoon.  Will  you  do  that  ? 

EILEEN — Yes.  [Joyfully]  Then  I  needn't  go 
to  bed  right  away? 

MRS.  TURNER — No — on  one  condition.  You 
mustn't  take  any  exercise.  Stay  in  your  recliner  all 
day  and  rest  and  remain  in  bed  tomorrow  morning. 
And  promise  me  you  will  rest  and  not  worry  any 
more  about  things  we  can  easily  fix  up  between  us. 

EILEEN — I  promise,  Mrs.  Turner. 

MRS.  TURNER — [Smiling  in  dismissal]  Very  well, 
then.  I  must  speak  to  Miss  Bailey.  I'll  see  you  this 
afternoon. 

EILEEN — Yes,  Mrs.  Turner.     [The  matron  goes 


80  THE  STRAW 

to  the  rear  where  Miss  BAILEY  is  sitting  with  MRS. 
ABNER.  She  beckons  to  Miss  BAILEY  who  gets  up 
with  a  scared  look,  and  they  go  to  the  far  left  cor 
ner  of  the  room.  EILEEN  stands  for  a  moment  hesi 
tating — then  starts  to  go  to  MURRAY,  but  just  at 
this  moment  PETERS  comes  forward  and  speaks  to 
MURRAY.] 

PETERS — [With  his  sly  twisted  grin.]  Say,  Car- 
mody  musta  lost  fierce.  Did  yuh  see  the  Old  Woman 
handin'  her  an  earful?  Sent  her  back  to  bed,  I 
betcha.  What  d'yuh  think? 

MURRAY — [Impatiently,  showing  his  dislike.] 
How  the  hell  do  I  know? 

PETERS — [Sneeringly.]  Huh,  you  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  her,  I  s'pose?  Where  d'yuh  get  that 
stuff?  Think  yuh're  kiddin'  me? 

MURRAY — [With  cold  rage  before  which  the^  other 
slinks  away.]  Peters,  the  more  I  see  of  you  the  bet 
ter  I  like  a  skunk !  If  it  wasn't  for  other  people  los 
ing  weight  you  couldn't  get  any  joy  out  of  life, 
could  you?  [Roughly.]  Get  away  from  me!  [He 
makes  a  threatening  gesture.] 

PETERS — [Beating  a  snarling  retreat.]  Wait'n'  see 
if  yuh  don't  lose  too,  yuh  stuck-up  boob!  [Seeing 
that  MURRAY  is  alone  again,  EILEEN  starts  toward 
him  but  this  time  she  is  ^intercepted  by  MRS.  ABNER 
who  stops  on  her  way  out.  The  weighing  of  the 
women  is  now  finished,  and  that  of  the  men,  which 
proceeds  much  quicker,  begins.] 

DOCTOR  STANTON — Anderson !    [ANDERSON  comes 


THE  STRAW  81 

to  the  scales*  The  men  all  move  down  to  the  left  to 
wait  their  turn,  with  the  exception  of  MURRAY,  who 
remains  by  the  dining  room  door,  fidgeting  impa 
tiently,  anxious  for  a  word  with  EILEEN.] 

MRS.  ABNER — [Taking  EILEEN'S  arm.]  Coming 
over  to  the  cottage,  dearie? 

EILEEN — Not  just  this  minute,  Mrs.  Abner.  I 
have  to  wait 

MRS.  ABNER — For  the  Old  Woman?  You  lost  to 
day,  didn't  you?  Is  she  sendin'  you  to  bed,  the  old 
devil? 

EILEEN — Yes,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  *o 

MRS.  ABNER — She's  a  mean  on'',  ain't  she?  I 
gained  this  week — half  a  pound.  Lord,  I'm  gittin' 
fat!  All  my  clothes  are  gittin'  too  small  for  me. 
Don't  know  what  I'll  do.  Did  you  lose  much,  dearie? 

EILEEN — Three  pounds. 

MRS.  ABNER — Ain't  that  awful!  [Hastening  to 
make  up  for  this  thoughtless  remark. "\  All  the  same, 
what's  three  pounds!  You  can  git  them  back  in  a 
week  after  you're  resting  more.  You  been  runnin'  a 
temp,  too,  ain't  you?  [EILEEN  nods.~\  Don't  worry 
about  it,  dearie.  It'll  go  down.  Worryin's  the 
worst.  Me,  I  don't  never  worry  none.  [She  chuck 
les  with  satisfaction — then  soberly.]  I  just  been 
talkin*  with  Bailey.  She's  got  to  go  to  bed,  too,  I 
guess.  She  lost  two  pounds.  She  ain't  runnin'  no 
temp  though. 

STANTON — Barnes!  [Another  man  comes  to  the 
scales.] 


82  THE  STRAW 

MRS.  ABNER — [In  a  mysterious  whisper.'}  Look 
at  Mr.  Murray,  dearie.  Ain't  he  nervous  today?  I 
don't  know  as  I  blame  him,  either.  I  heard  the  doc 
tor  said  he'd  let  him  go  home  if  he  gained  today.  Is 
is  true,  d'you  know? 

EILEEN — [Dully .]     I  don't  know. 

MRS.  ABNER — Gosh,  I  wish  it  was  me!  My  old 
man's  missin'  me  like  the  dickens,  he  writes.  [She 
starts  to  go.]  You'll  be  over  to  the  cottage  in  a 
while,  won't  you?  Me'n*  you'll  have  a  game  of  ca 
sino,  eh? 

EILEEN — [Wappy  at  this  deliverance.]  Yes,  I'll 
be  glad  to. 

STANTON — Cordero!  [MRS.  ABNER  goes  out. 
EILEEN  again  starts  toward  MURRAY  but  this  time 
FLYNN,  a  young  fellow  with  a  brick-colored,  homely, 
good-natured  face,  and  a  shaven-necked  haircut, 
seiches  back  to  MURRAY.  EILEEN  is  brought  to  a 
halt  in  frdnt  of  the  table  where  she  stands,  her  face 
working  with  nervous  strain,  clasping  and  unclasp* 
ing  her  trembling  hands.] 

FLYNN — [Curiously.]  Say,  Steve,  what's  this  bull 
about  the  Doc  lettin'  yuh  beat  it  if  yuh  gain  today? 
Is  it  straight  goods? 

MURRAY — He  said  he  might,  that's  all.  [Impa^ 
tiently]  How  the  devil  did  that  story  get  travelling 
around? 

FLYNN — [With  a  grin]  Wha'  d'yuh  expect  with 
this  gang  of  skirts  chewin'  the  fat?  Well,  here's 
hopin'  yuh  come  home  a  winner,  Steve. 


THE  STRAW  83 

MURRAY — [Gratefully.]  Thanks.  [WitTi  confi 
dence.']  Oh,  I'll  gain  all  right;  but  whether  he'll  let 
me  go  or  not [He  shrugs  his  shoulders."] 

FLYNN — Make  'em  behave.  I  wisht  Stanton'd  ask 
waivers  on  me.  [With  a  laugh.]  I  oughter  gain  a 
ton  today.  I  ate  enough  spuds  for  breakfast  to 
plant  a  farm. 

STANTON — Flynn ! 

FLYNN — Me  to  the  plate!  [He  strides  to  the 
scales.] 

MURRAY — Good  luck !  [He  starts  to  join  EILEEN 
but  Miss  BAILEY,  who  has  finished  her  talk  with  MRS. 
TURNER,  who  goes  out  to  the  hall,  approaches 
EILEEN  at  just  this  moment.  MURRAY  stops  in  his 
tracks,  fummg.  He  and  EILEEN  exchange  a  glance 
of  helpless  annoyance.] 

Miss  BAILEY — [Her  thin  face  full  of  the  satisfac 
tion  of  misery  finding  company — plucks  at  EILEEN'S 
sleeve.]  Say,  Carmody,  she  sent  you  back  to  bed, 
too,  didn't  she? 

EILEEN — [Absent-mindedly.]     I  suppose 

Miss  BAILEY — You  suppose?  Don't  you  know? 
Of  course  she  did.  I  got  to  go,  too.  [Putting 
EILEEN'S  sleeve.]  Come  on.  Let's  get  out  of  here. 
I  hate  this  place,  don't  you? 

STANTON — [Calling  the  next.]     Hopper! 

FLYNN — [Shouts  to  MURRAY  as  he  is  going  out  to 
the  hall.]  I  hit  'er  for  a  two-bagger,  Steve.  Come 
on  now,  Bo,  and  bring  me  home !  'Atta  boy !  [Grin- 


84  THE  STtfAW 

ning  gleefully,  lie  slouches  out.  DOCTOR  STANTON 
and  all  the  patients  laugh.'] 

Miss  BAILEY — [With  irritating  persistence.] 
Come  on,  Carmody.  You've  got  to  go  to  bed,  too. 

EILEEN — [At  the  end  of  her  patience — releasing 
her  arm  from  the  other's  grasp.]  Let  me  alone,  will 
you?  I  don't  have  to  go  to  bed  now — not  till  to 
morrow  morning. 

Miss  BAILEY — [Despairingly,  as  if  she  couldn't 
believe  her  ears]  You  don't  have  to  go  to  bed? 

EILEEN — Not  now — no. 

Miss  BAILEY — [In  a  whining  rage.]  Why  not? 
You've  been  running  a  temp,  too,  and  I  haven't! 
You  must  have  a  pull,  that's  what !  It  isn't  fair.  I'll 
bet  you  lost  more  than  I  did,  too !  What  right  have 

you  got Well,  I'm  not  going  to  bed  if  you 

don't!  Wait  'n'  see ! 

EILEEN — [Turning  away  revolted]  Go  away! 
Leave  me  alone,  please. 

STANTON — Lowenstein ! 

Miss  BAILEY — [Turns  to  the  hall  door,  whining] 
All  right  for  you!  I'm  going  to  find  out.  It  isn't 
square.  I'll  write  home.  [She  disappears  in  the 
hallway.  MURRAY  strides  over  to  EILEEN  whose 
strength  seems  to  have  left  her  and  who  is  leaning 
weakly  against  the  table] 

MURRAY — Thank  God — at  last !  Isn't  it  hell — all 
these  fools !  I  couldn't  get  to  you.  What  did  Old 
Lady  Grundy  have  to  say  to  you?  I  saw  her  giving 
me  a  hard  look.  Was  it  about  us — the  old  stuff? 


THE  STRAW  85 

[EILEEN  nods  with  downcast  eyes]  What  did  she 
say  ?  Never  mind  now.  You  can  tell  me  in  a  minute. 
It's  my  turn  next.  [His  eyes  glance  toward  the 
scales.~\ 

EILEEN — [Intensely.]  Oh,  Stephen,  I  wish  you 
weren't  going  away ! 

MURRAY — [Excitedly.]  Maybe  I'm  not.  It's  ex 
citing — like  gambling — if  I  win 

ST  ANTON — Murray ! 

MURRAY — Wait  here,  Eileen.  [He  goes  to  the 
scales.  EILEEN  keeps  her  back  turned.  Her  body 
stiffens  rigidly  in  the  intensity  of  her  conflicting  emo 
tions.  She  stares  straight  ahead,  her  eyes  full  of 
anguish.  MURRAY  steps  on  the  scales  nervously. 
The  balance  rod  hits  the  top  smartly.  He  has  gained. 
His  face  lights  up  and  he  heaves  a  great  sigh  of  re 
lief.  EILEEN  seems  to  sense  this  outcome  and  her 
head  sinks,  her  body  sags  weakly  and  seems  to 
shrink  to  a  smaller  size.  MURRAY  gets  off  the  scales, 
his  face  beaming  with  a  triumphant  smile.  DOCTOR 
STANTON  smiles  and  murmurs  something  to  him  in  a 
low  voice.  MURRAY  nods  brightly;  then  turns  back 
to  EILEEN.] 

STANTON — Nathan!  [Another  patient  advances 
to  the  scales.] 

MURRAY — [Trying  to  appear  casual]  Well — 
three  rousing  cheers!  Stanton  told  me  to  come  to 
his  office  at  eleven.  That  means  a  final  exam — and 
release ! 

EILEEN — [Dully.]     So  you  gained? 


86  THE  STRAW 

MURRAY — Three  pounds. 

EILEEN — Funny — I  lost  three.  [With  a  pitiful 
effort  at  a  smile.}  I  hope  you  gained  the  ones  I  lost. 
[Her  lips  tremble.]  So  you're  surely  going  away. 

MURRAY — [His  joy  fleeing  as  he  is  confronted 
with  her  sorrow — slowly.}  It  looks  that  way, 
Eileen. 

EILEEN — [In  a  trembling  whisper  broken  by  ris 
ing  sobs.}  Oh — I'm  so  glad — you  gained — the  ones 

I  lost,  Stephen So  glad!  [She  breaks  down, 

covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  stifling  her  sobs.} 

MURRAY — [Alarmed.}  Eileen!  What's  the  mat 
ter?  [Desperately.}  Stop  it!  Stanton'll  see  you! 

[The  Curtam  Fatts] 


ACT  II 

SCENE  TWO 

SCENE — Midnight  of  the  same  day.  A  crossroads 
near  the  sanatorium.  The  main  road  comes 
down  forward  from  the  right.  A  smaller  road, 
leading  down  from  the  left,  joins  it  toward  left, 
center. 

Dense  woods  rise  sheer  from  the  grass  and 
bramble-grown  ditches  at  the  roads9  sides.  At 
the  junction  of  the  two  roads  there  is  a  sign 
post,  its  arms  pointing  toward  the  right  and 
the  left,  rear.  A  pile  of  round  stones  is  at  the 
road  corner,  left  forward.  A  full  moon,  riding 
high  overhead,  throws  the  roads  into  white, 
shadowless  relief  and  masses  the  woods  into 
walls  of  compact  blackness.  The  trees  lean 
heavily  together,  their  branches  motionless,  un 
stirred  by  any  trace  of  wind. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  EILEEN  is  discovered 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  front  center. 
Her  face  shows  white  and  clear  in  the  bright 
moonlight  as  she  stares  with  anxious  expect 
ancy  up  the  road  to  the  left.  Her  body  is  fixed 
in  an  attitude  of  rigid  immobility  as  if  she  were 
87 


88  THE  STRAW 

afraid  a  slightest  movement  would  break  the 
spell  of  silence  and  awaken  the  unknown.  She 
has  shrunk  instinctively  as  far  away  as  she  can 
from  the  mysterious  darkness  which  rises  at  the 
road's  sides  like  an  imprisoning  wall.  A  sound 
of  hurried  footfalls,  muffled  by  the  dust,  comes 
from  the  road  she  is  watching.  She  gives  a 
startled  gasp.  Her  eyes  strain  to  identify  the 
oncomer.  Uncertain,  trembling  with  fright, 
she  hesitates  a  second;  then  darts  to  the  side  of 
the  road  and  crouches  down  in  the  shadow. 

STEPHEN  MURRAY  comes  down  the  road  from 
the  left.  He  stops  by  the  sign-post  and  peers 
about  him.  He  wears  a  cap,  the  peak  of  which 
casts  his  face  into  shadow.  Finally  he  calls  in 
a  low  voice:} 
MURRAY — Eileen ! 

EILEEN — [Coming  out  quickly  -from  her  hiding 
place — with  a  glad  little  cry.~\  Stephen!  At  last! 
[She  runs  to  him  as  if  she  were  going  to  fling  her 
arms  about  him  but  stops  abashed.  He  reaches  out 
and  takes  her  hands.'] 

MURRAY — At  last?  It  can't  be  twelve  yet.  [He 
leads  her  to  the  pile  of  stones  on  the  left.]  I  haven't 
heard  the  village  clock. 

EILEEN — I  must  have  come  early.    It  seemed  as  if 

I'd  been  waiting  for  ages.    I  was  so  anxious 

MURRAY — How  your  hands  tremble!  Were  you 
frightened  ? 

EILEEN — [Forcing  a  smile.]     A  little.  The  woods 


THE  STRAW  89 

are  so  black — and  queer  looking.    I'm  all  right  now. 

MURRAY — Sit  down.  You  must  rest.  [In  a  tone 
of  annoyed  reproof.']  I'm  going  to  read  you  a  lec 
ture,  young  lady.  You  shouldn't  ever  have  done 

this — running  a  temp  and Good  heavens,  don't 

you  want  to  get  well? 

EILEEN — [Dully.'}     I  don't  know 

MURRAY — [Irritably.']  You  make  me  ill  when 
you  talk  that  way,  Eileen.  It  doesn't  sound  like  you 
at  all.  What's  come  over  you  lately  ?  Get  a  grip  on 
yourself,  for  God's  sake.  I  was — knocked  out — 
when  I  read  the  note  you  slipped  me  after  supper. 
I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  read  it  until  late,  I  was  so 
busy  packing,  and  by  that  time  you'd  gone  to  your 
cottage.  If  I  could  have  reached  you  any  way  I'd 
have  refused  to  come  here,  I  tell  you  straight.  But 
I  couldn't — and  I  knew  you'd  be  here  waiting — and 
— still,  I  feel  guilty.  Damn  it,  this  isn't  the  thing 
for  you !  You  ought  to  be  in  bed  asleep.  Can't  you 
look  out  for  yourself? 

EILEEN — [Humbly.']  Please,  Stephen,  don't 
scold  me. 

MURRAY — How  the  devil  did  you  ever  get  the  idea 
— meeting  me  here  at  this  ungodly  hour? 

EILEEN — You'd  told  me  about  your  sneaking  out 
that  night  to  go  to  the  village,  and  I  thought  there'd 
be  no  harm  this  one  night — the  last  night. 

MURRAY — But  I'm  well.  I've  been  well.  It's  dif 
ferent.  You Honest,  Eileen,  you  shouldn't 

lose  sleep  and  tax  your  strength. 


90  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — Dpn't  scold  me,  please.  I'll  make  up 
for  it.  I'll  rest  all  the  time — after  you're  gone.  I 
just  had  to  see  you  some  way — somewhere  where 
there  weren't  eyes  and  ears  on  all  sides — when  you 
told  me  after  dinner  that  Doctor  Stanton  had  ex 
amined  you  and  said  you  could  go  tomorrow 

[A  clock  in  the  distant  village  begins  striking.] 
Ssshh !  Listen. 

MURRAY — That's  twelve  now.  You  see  I  was  early. 
[In  a  pause  of  silence  they  wait  motionlessly  until 
the  last  mournful  note  dies  m  the  hushed  woods.'] 

EILEEN — [In  a  stifled  voice.]  It  isn't  tomorrow 
now,  is  it?  It's  today — the  day  you're  going. 

MURRAY — [Something  in  her  voice  making  him 
avert  his  face  and  kick  at  the  heap  of  stones  on  which 
she  is  sitting — brusquely]  Well,  I  hope  you  took 
precautions  so  you  wouldn't  be  caught  sneaking  out. 

EILEEN — I  did  just  what  you'd  told  me  you  did — 
stuffed  the  pillows  under  the  clothes  so  the  watch 
man  would  think  I  was  there. 

MURRAY — None  of  the  patients  on  your  porch 
saw  you  leave,  did  they? 

EILEEN — No.     They  were  all  asleep. 

MURRAY — That's  all  right,  then.  I  wouldn't 
trust  any  of  that  bunch  of  women.  They'd  be  only 
too  tickled  to  squeal  on  you.  [There  is  an  uncom 
fortable  pause.  MURRAY  seems  waiting  for  her  to 
speak.  He  looks  about  him  at  the  trees,  up  into  the 
moonlit  sky,  breathing  in  the  -fresh  night  air  with  a 
healthy  delight.  EILEEN  remains  with  downcast 


THE  STRAW  91 

head,  staring  at  the  road.~\  It's  beautiful  tonight, 
isn't  it?  Worth  losing  sleep  for. 

EILEEN — [Dully.]  Yes.  [Another  pause — 
finally  she  murmurs  faintly. ,]  Are  you  leaving  early? 

MURRAY — Tfce  ten-forty.  Leave  the  San  at  ten, 
I  guess. 

EILEEN — You're  going  home? 

MURRAY — Home?  You  mean  to  the  town?  No. 
But  I'm  going  to  see  my  sisters — just  to  say  hello. 
I've  got  to,  I  suppose.  I  won't  stay  more  than  a 
few  days,  if  I  can  help  it. 

EILEEN — I'm  sure — I've  often  felt — you're  un 
just  to  your  sisters.  [TFi£&  conviction.]  I'm  sure 
they,  must  both  love  you. 

MURRAY — [Frowning.]  Maybe,  in  their  own  way. 
But  what's  love  without  a  glimmer  of  understanding 
— a  nuisance!  They  have  never  seen  the  real  me 
and  never  have  wanted  to — that's  all. 

EILEEN — [As  if  to  herself.]  What  is — the  real 
you?  [MURRAY  kicks  at  the  stones  impatiently 
without  answering.  EILEEN  hastens  to  change  the 
subject.]  And  then  you'll  go  to  New  York? 

MURRAY — [Interested  at  once.]     Yes.     You  bet. 

EILEEN — And  write  more? 

MURRAY — Not  in  New  York,,  no.  I'm  going  there 
to  take  a  vacation,  and  live,  really  enjoy  myself  for 
a  while.  I've  enough  money  for  that  as  it  is  and  if 
the  other  stories  you  typed  sell — I'll  be  as  rich  as 
Rockefeller.  I  might  even  travel —  No,  I've  got 
to  make  good  with  my  best  stuff  first.  I'll  save  the 


92  THE  STRAW 

travelling  as  a  reward,  a  prize  to  gain.  That'll 
keep  me  at  it.  I  know  what  I'll  do.  When  I've  had 
enough  of  New  York,  I'll  rent  a  place  in  the  coun 
try — some  old  farmhouse — and  live  alone  there  and 
work.  [Lost  m  his  own  plans — with  pleasure.] 
That's  the  right  idea,  isn't  it? 

EILEEN — [Trying  to  appear  enthused.]  It  ought 
to  be  fine  for  your  work.  [After  a  pause.]  They're 
fine,  those  stories  you  wrote  here.  They're — so  much 
like  you.  I'd  know  it  was  you  wrote  them  even  if — 
I  didn't  know. 

MURRAY — [Pleased.]  Wait  till  you  read  the 
others  I'm  going  to  do!  [After  a  slight  pause — 
with  a  good-natured  grin.]  Here  I  am  talking  about 
myself  again !  Why  don't  you  call  me  down  when 
I  start  that  drivel?  But  you  don't  know  how  good 
it  is  to  have  your  dreams  coming  true.  It'd  make 
an  egotist  out  of  anyone. 

EILEEN — [Sadly.]  No.  I  don't  know.  But  I 
love  to  hear  you  talk  of  yours. 

MURRAY — [With  an  embarrassed  laugh]  Thanks. 
Well,  I've  certainly  told  you  all  of  them.  You're 

the  only  one [He  stops  and  abruptly  changes 

the  subject]  You  said  in  your  note  that  you  had 
something  important  to  tell  me.  [He  sits  down  be 
side  her,  crossing  his  legs.]  Is  it  about  your  inter 
view  with  Old  Mrs.  Grundy  this  afternoon? 

EILEEN — No,  that  didn't  amount  to  anything. 
She  seemed  mad  because  I  told  her  so  little.  I  think 
she  guessed  I  only  told  her  what  I  did  so  she'd  let 


THE  STRAW  93 

me  stay  up,  maybe — your  last  day, — and  to  keep  her 
from  thinking  what  she  did — about  us. 

MURRAY — [Quickly,  as  if  he.  wishes  to  avoid  this 
subject.]  What  is  it  you  wanted  to  tell  me,  then? 

EILEEN — [Sadly.]  It  doesn't  seem  so  important 
now,  somehow.  I  suppose  it  was  silly  of  me  to  drag 
you  out  here,  just  for  that.  It  can't  mean  anything 
to  you — much. 

MURRAY — [Encouragingly.]  How  do  you  know 
it  can't? 

EILEEN — [Slowly.]  I  only  thought — you  might 
like  to  know. 

MURRAY — [Interestedly.]  Know  what?  What  is 
it?  If  I  can  help— 

EILEEN — No.  [After  a  moment's  hesitation.]  I 
wrote  to  him  this  afternoon. 

MURRAY — Him  ? 

EILEEN — The  letter  you've  been  advising  me  to 
write. 

MURRAY — [As  if  the  knowledge  of  this  alarmed 
him — haltingly.]  You  mean — Fred  Nicholls? 

EILEEN — Yes. 

MURRAY — [After  a  pause — uncomfortably.]  You 
mean — you  broke  it  all  off? 

EILEEN — Yes — for  good.  [She  looks  up  at  his 
averted  face.  He  remains  suent.  She  continues  ap 
prehensively.]  You  don't  say  anything.  I  thought 
— you'd  be  glad.  You've  always  told  me  it  was  the 
honorable  thing  to  do. 

MURRAY — [Gruffly.]     I  know.     I  say  more  than 


94  THE  STRAW 


my  prayers,  damn  it!  [TFi£/t  sudden  eagerness.] 
Have  you  mailed  the  letter  yet? 

EILEEN  —  Yes.     Why? 

MURRAY  —  [Shortly.]     Humph.     Oh  —  nothing. 

EILEEN  —  [With  pained  disappointment]  Oh, 
Stephen,  you  don't  think  I  did  wrong,  do  you  — 
now  —  after  all  you've  said? 

MURRAY  —  [Hurriedly]  Wrong?  No,  not  if  you 
were  convinced  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do  yourself 
—  if  you  know  you  don't  love  him.  But  I'd  hate  to 
think  you  did  it  just  on  my  say-so.  I  shouldn't  -  • 
I  didn't  mean  to  interfere.  I  don't  know  enough 
about  your  relations  for  my  opinion  to  count. 

EILEEN  —  [Hurt]    You  know  all  there  is  to  know. 

MURRAY  —  I  didn't  mean  —  anything  like  that.  I 
know  you've  been  frank.  But  him  —  I  don't  know 
him.  How  could  I,  just  meeting  him  once?  He  may 
be  quite  different  from  my  idea.  That's  what  I'm 
getting  at.  I  don't  want  to  be  unfair  to  him. 

EILEEN  —  [Bitterly  scornful]  You  needn't 
worry.  You  weren't  unfair.  And  you  needn't  be 
afraid  you  were  responsible  for  my  writing.  I'd 
been  going  to  for  a  long  time  before  you  ever  spoke. 

MURRAY  —  [With  a  relieved  sigh]  I'm  glad  of 
that  —  honestly,  Eileen.  I  felt  guilty.  I  shouldn't 
have  knocked  him  behind  his  back  without  knowing 
him  at  all. 

EILEEN  —  You  said  you  could  read  him  like  a  book 
from  his  letters  I  showed  you. 

MURRAY  —  [Apologetically]     I  know.    I'm  a  fool. 


THE  STRAW  95 

EILEEN — [Angrily.]  What  makes  you  so  consid 
erate  of  Fred  Nicholls  all  of  a  sudden?  What  you 
thought  about  him  was  right. 

MURRAY — [Vaguely.]  I  don't  know.  One  makes 
mistakes. 

EILEEN — [Assertively.]  Well,  I  know!  You 
needn't  waste  pity  on  him.  He'll  be  only  too  glad 
to  get  my  letter.  He's  been  anxious  to  be  free  of 
me  ever  since  I  was  sent  here,  only  he  thought  it 
wouldn't  be  decent  to  break  it  off  himself  while  I 
was  sick.  He  was  afraid  of  what  people  would  say 
about  him  when  they  found  it  out.  So  he's  just 
gradually  stopped  writing  and  coming  for  visits, 
and  waited  for  me  to  realize.  And  if  I  didn't,  I 
know  he'd  have  broken  it  off  himself  the  first  day  I 
got  home.  I've  kept  persuading  myself  that,  in  spite 
of  the  way  he's  acted,  he  did  love  me  as  much  as  he 
could  love  anyone,  and  that  it  would  hurt  him  if 

I But  now  I  know  that  he  never  loved  me,  that 

he  couldn't  love  anyone  but  himself.  Oh,  I  don't 
hate  him  for  it.  He  can't  help  being  what  he  is. 
And  all  people  seem  to  be — like  that,  mostly.  I'm 
only  going  to  remember  that  he  and  I  grew  up  to 
gether,  and  that  he  was  kind  to  me  then  when  he 
thought  he  liked  me — and  forget  all  the  rest.  [  With 
agitated  impatience.']  Oh,  Stephen,  you  know  all 
this  I've  said  about  him.  Why  don't  you  admit  it? 
You've  read  his  letters. 

MURRAY — [Haltingly.]  Yes,  I'll  admit  that  was 
my  opinion — only  I  wanted  to  be  sure  you'd  found 
out  for  yourself. 


96  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN—  [Defiantly.']  Well,  I  have !  You  see  that 
now,  don't  you? 

MURRAY — Yes;  and  I'm  glad  you're  free  of  him, 
for  your  own  sake.  I  knew  he  wasn't  the  person. 
[With  an  attempt  at  a  joking  tone.]  You  must  get 
one  of  the  right  sort — next  time. 

EILEEN — [Springing  to  her  feet  with  a  cry  of 
pain.]  Stephen!  [He  avoids  her  eyes  which  search 
his  face  pleadingly.] 

MURRAY — [Mumbling.']  He  wasn't  good  enough 
— to  lace  your  shoes — nor  anyone  else,  either. 

EILEEN — [With  a  nervous  laugh.'}  Don't  be 
silly.  [After  a  pause  during  which  she  waits  hun 
grily  for  some  word  from  him — with  a  sigh  of  de 
spair — faintly.]  Well,  I've  told  you — all  there  is. 
I  might  as  well  go  back. 

MURRAY — [Not  looking  at  .her — indistinctly.] 
Yes.  You  mustn't  lose  too  much  sleep.  I'll  come  to 
your  cottage  in  the  morning  to  say  good-bye.  They'll 
permit  that,  I  guess. 

EILEEN — [Stands  looking  at  him  imploringly,  her 
face  convulsed  with  anguish,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  rocks  at  his  feet.  Finally  she  seems  to 
give  up  and  takes  a  few  uncertain  steps  up  the  road 
toward  the  right — in  an  exhausted  whisper.]  Good 
night,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [His  voice  choked  and  husky.]  Good 
night,  Eileen. 

EILEEN — [Walks  weakly  up  the  road  but,  as  she 
passes  the  signpost,  she  suddenly  stops  and  turns 


THE  STRAW  97 

to  look  again  at  MURRAY  who  has  not  moved  or 
lifted  his  eyes.  A  great  shuddering  sob  shatters  her 
pent-up  emotions.  She  runs  back  to  MURRAY,  her 
arms  outstretched,  with  a  chokmg  cry.]  Stephen! 

MURRAY — [Startled,  whirls  to  face  her  and  'finds 
her  arms  thrown  around  his  neck — m  a  terrified 
tone.]  Eileen! 

EILEEN — [Brokenly.]  I  love  you,  Stephen — you! 
That's  what  I  wanted  to  tell!  [She  gazes  up  into 
his  eyes,  her  face  transfigured  by  the  joy  and  pain 
of  this  abject  confession.] 

MURRAY — [Wincing  as  if  this  were  the  thing  he 
had  feared  to  hear.  ]  Eileen ! 

EILEEN — [Pulling  down  his  head  with  fierce 
strength  and  kissing  him  passionately  on  the  lips.] 
I  love  you!  I  will  say  it!  There!  [With  sudden 
horror.]  Oh,  I  know  I  shouldn't  kiss  you!  I 
mustn't!  You're  all  well — and  I 

MURRAY — [Protesting  frenziedly.]  Eileen!  Damn 
it !  Don't  say  that !  What  do  you  think  I  am ! 
[He  kisses  her  fiercely  two  or  three  times  until  she 
forces  a  hand  over  her  mouth.] 

EILEEN — [With  a  hysterically  happy  laugh.] 
No !  Just  hold  me  in  your  arms — just  a  little  while 
— bef o re 

MURRAY — [His  voice  trembling.]  Eileen!  Don't 

talk  that  way!  You're it's  killing  me.  I  can't 

stand  it! 

EILEEN — [with  soothing  tenderness.]  Listen, 
dear — listen — and  you  won't  say  a  word I've 


98  THE  STRAW 

so  much  to  say — till  I  get  through — please,  will  you 
promise? 

MURRAY — [Between  clmched  teeth.}  Yes — any 
thing,  Eileen ! 

EILEEN — Then  I  want  to  say — I  know  your  se 
cret.  You  don't  love  me Isn't  that  it?  [MUR 
RAY  groans.}  Ssshh!  It's  all  right,  dear.  You 
can't  help  what  you  don't  feel.  I've  guessed  you 
didn't — right  along.  And  I've  loved  you — such  a 
long  time  now — always,  it  seems.  And  you've  sort 
of  guessed — that  I  did — didn't  you?  No,  don't 
speak!  I'm  sure  you've  guessed — only  you  didn't 
want  to  know — that — did  you? — when  you  didn't 
love  me.  That's  why  you  were  lying — but  I  saw,  I 
knew !  Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you,  darling.  How  could 
;I — never!  You  mustn't  look  so — so  frightened.  I 
,know  how  you  felt,  dear.  I've — I've  watched  you. 
It  was  just  a  flirtation  for  you  at  first.  Wasn't  it? 

Oh,  I  know.  It  was  just  fun,  and Please  don't 

look  at  me  so.  I'm  not  hurting  you,  am  I?  I 
wouldn't  for  worlds,  dear — you  know — hurt  you ! 
And  then  afterwards — you  found  we  could  be  such 
good  friends — helping  each  other — and  you  wanted 
it  to  stay  just  like  that  always,  didn't  you? — I 
know — and  then  I  had  to  spoil  it  all — and  fall  in 
love  with  you — didn't  I?  Oh,  it  was  stupid — I 
shouldn't — I  couldn't  help  it,  you  were  so  kind  and 
— and  different — and  I  wanted  to  share  in  your  work 
and — and  everything.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  want 
to  know  I  loved  you — when  you  didn't — and  I  tried 


THE  STRAW  99 

hard  to  be  fair  and  hide  my  love  so  you  wouldn't  see 
— and  I  did,  didn't  I,  dear?  You  never  knew  till 
just  lately — maybe  not  till  just  today — did  you? — 
when  I  knew  you  were  going  away  so  soon — and 
couldn't  help  showing  it.  You  never  knew  before, 
did  you?  Did  you? 

MURRAY — [Miserably.]  No.  Oh,  Eileen — Eileen, 
I'm  so  sorry ! 

EILEEN — [In  heart-broken  protest.]  Sorry?  Oh 
110,  Stephen,  you  mustn't  be!  It's  been  beautiful — 
all  of  it — for  me !  That's  what  makes  your  going — 
so  hard.  I  had  to  see  you  tonight — I'd  have  gone — 
crazy — if  I  didn't  know  you  knew,  if  I  hadn't  made 
you  guess.  And  I  thought — if  you  knew  about  my 
writing  to  Fred — that — maybe — it'd  make  some 
difference.  [MURRAY  groans — and  she  laughs  hys 
teric  ally.]  I  must  have  been  crazy — to  think  that — 
mustn't  I?  As  if  that  could — when  you  don't  love 
me.  Sshh!  Please!  Let  me  finish.  You  mustn't 
feel  sad — or  anything.  It's  made  me  happier  than 
I've  ever  been — loving  you — even  when  I  did  know — 
you  didn't.  Only  now — you'll  forgive  me  telling  you 
all  this,  won't  you,  dear?  Now,  it's  so  terrible  to 
think  I  won't  see  you  any  more.  I'll  feel  so — with 
out  anybody. 

MURRAY — [Brokenly.]  But  I'll — come  back. 
And  you'll  be  out  soon — and  then 

EILEEN — [Brokenly.]  Sshh!  Let  me  finish. 
You  don't  know  how  alone  I  am  now.  Father — » 
he'll  marry  that  housekeeper — and  the  children — 


100  THE  STRAW 

they've  forgotten  me.  None  of  them  need  me  any 
more.  They've  found  out  how  to  get  on  without 
me — and  I'm  a  drag — dead  to  them — no  place  for 
me  home  any  more — and  they'll  be  afraid  to  have 
me  back — afraid  of  catching — I  know  she  won't 
want  me  back.  And  Fred — he's  gone — he  never 
mattered,  anyway.  Forgive  me  dear — worrying  you 
— only  I  want  you  to  know  how  much  you've  meant 
to  me — so  you  won't  forget — ever — after  you've 
gone. 

MURRAY — [In  grief-stricken  tones.]  Forget? 
Eileen !  I'll  do  anything  in  God's  world 

EILEEN — I  know — you  like  me  a  lot  even  if  you 
can't  love  me — don't  you?  {His  arms  tighten  about 
her  as  he  bends  down  and  forces  a  Jciss  on  her  lips 
again.]  Oh  Stephen!  That  was  for  good-bye.  You 
mustn't  come  tomorrow  morning.  I  couldn't  bear 
having  you — with  people  watching.  But  you'll  write 
after — often — won't  you?  [Heartbrokerily.]  Oh, 
please  do  that,  Stephen! 

MURRAY. — I  will!  I  swear!  And  when  you  get 
out  I'll — we'll — I'll  find  something — [He  kisses  her 
again.] 

EILEEN — [Breaking  away  from  him  with  a  quick 
movement  and  stepping  back  a  few  feet.]  Good-bye 
darling.  Remember  me — and  perhaps — you'll  find 
out  after  a  time — I'll  pray  God  to  make  it  so !  Oh, 
what  am  I  saying?  Only — I'll  hope — I'll  hope — till 
I  die! 

MURRAY — [In  anguish.]     Eileen! 


THE  STRAW       ,      , 

EILEEN — [Her  breath  coming  in  tremulous  heaves 
of  her  bosom.]  Remember,  Stephen — if  ever  you  want 
— I'll  do  anything — anything  you  want — no  matter 
what — I  don't  care — there's  just  you  and — don't 
hate  me,  dear.  I  love  you — love  you — remember! 
[She  suddenly  turns  and  runs  away  up  the  road.] 

MURRAY — Eileen !  [He  starts  to  run  after  her  but 
stops  by  the  signpost  and  stamps  on  the  ground 
furiously,  his  fists  clenched  in  impotent  rage  at  him 
self  and  at  fate.  He  curses  hoarsely.]  Christ! 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


ACT  in 


ACT  III 

SCENE — Four  months  later.  An  isolation  room  at 
the  infirmary  with  a  sleeping  porch  at  the  right 
of  it.  Late  afternoon  of  a  Sunday  toward  the 
end  of  October.  The  room,  extending  two- 
thirds  of  the  distance  from  left  to  right,  is,  for 
reasons  of  space  economy,  scantily  furnished 
with  the  bare  necessities — a  bureau  with  mirror 
m  the  left  corner,  rear — two  straight-backed 
chairs — a  table  with  a  glass  top  in  the  center. 
The  fioor  is  varnished  hardwood.  The  walls 
and  furniture  are  painted  white.  On  the  left, 
forward,  a  door  to  the  hallway.  On  the  right, 
rear,  a  double  glass  door  opening  on  the  porch. 
Farther  front  two  windows.  The  porch,'  a 
screened-in  continuation  of  the  room,  contains 
only  a  single  iron  bed  painted  white,  and  a 
small  table  placed  beside  the  bed. 

The  woods,  the  leaves  of  the  trees  rich  in  their 
autumn  coloring,  rise  close  about  this  side  of 
the  Infirmary.  Their  branches  almost  touch 
the  porch  on  the  right.,  In  the  rear  of  the  porch 
they  have  been  cleared  away  from  the  building 
for  a  narrow  space,  and  through  this  opening 
105 


106  THE  STRAW 

the  distant  hills  can  be  seen  with  the  tree  tops 
glowing  in  the  sunlight. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  Eileen  is  discovered  ly 
ing  in  the  bed  on  the  porch,  propped  up  into 
a  half -sit  ting  position  by  pillows  under  her  back 
and  head.  She  seems  to  have  grown  much  thin 
ner.  Her  face  is  pale  and  drawn  with  deep 
hollows  under  her  cheek-bones.  Her  eyes  are 
dull  and  lusterless.  She  gazes  straight  before 
her  into  the  wood  with  the  unseeing  stare  of 
apathetic  indifference.  The  door  from  the  hall 
in  the  room  behind  her  is  opened  and  Miss  How 
ard  enters  followed  by  Bill  Carmody,  Mrs.  Bren>- 
nan,  and  Mary.  Carmody's  manner  is  unwont- 
edly  sober  and  subdued.  This  air  of  respect 
able  sobriety  is  further  enhanced  by  a  black 
suit,  glaringly  new  and  stiffly  pressed,  a  new 
black  derby  hat,  and  shoes  polished  like  a  mir 
ror.  His  expression  is  full  of  a  bitter,  if  sup 
pressed,  resentment.  His  gentility  is  evidently 
forced  upon  him  in  spite  of  himself  and  corre 
spondingly  irksome.  Mrs.  Brennan  is  a  tall, 
stout  woman  of  fifty,  lusty  and  loud-voiced,  with 
a  broad,  snub-nosed,  florid  face,  a  large  mouth, 
the  upper  lip  darkened  by  a  suggestion  of  mus 
tache,  and  little  round  blue  eyes,  hard  and  rest 
less  with  a  continual  fuming  irritation.  She 
is  got  up  regardless  in  her  ridiculous  Sunday - 
best.  Mary  appears  tall  and  skinny-legged  in  a 
starched,  outgrown  frock.  The  sweetness  of 


THE  STRAW  107 

her  face  has  disappeared,  giving  way  to  a  hang 
dog  sullenness,  a  stubborn  silence,  with  sulky, 
furtive  glances  of  rebellion  directed  at  her  step 
mother. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Pointing  to  the  porch.]  She's 
out  there  on  the  porch. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [With  dignity.']  Thank  you, 
ma'am. 

Miss  HOWARD — [With  a  searching  glance  at  the 
visitors  as  if  to  appraise  their  intentions.]  Eileen's 
been  very  sick  lately,  you  know,  so  be  careful  not  to 
worry  her  about  anything.  Do  your  best  to  cheer 
her  up. 

CARMODY — [Mournfully.]  We'll  try  to  put  life 
in  her  spirits,  God  help  her.  [With  an  uncertain 
look  at  Mrs.  Brennan.]  Won't  we,  Maggie? 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Turning  sharply  on  Mary  who 
has  gone  over  to  examine  the  thmgs  on  the  bureau.] 
Come  away  from  that,  Mary.  Curiosity  killed  a  cat. 
Don't  be  touchin'  her  things.  Remember  what  I  told 
you.  Or  is  it  admirin'  your  mug  in  the  mirror  you 
are?  [Turning  to  Miss  Howard  as  Mary  moves 
away  from  the  bureau,  hanging  her  head — shortly.] 
Don't  you  worry,  ma'am.  We  won't  trouble  Eileen, 
at  all. 

Miss  HOWARD — Another  thing.  You  mustn't  ,say 
anything  to  her  of  what  Miss  Gilpin  just  told  you 
about  her  being  sent  away  to  the  State  Farm  in  a 

' 


108  THE  STRAW 

few  days.     Eileen  isn't  to  know  till  the  very  last 
minute.    It  would  only  disturb  her. 

CARMODY — [Hastily.]    We'll  not  say  a  word  of  it. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Turning  to  the  hall  door.'}  Thank 
you.  [She  goes  out,  shutting  the  door] 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Angrily. ]  She  has  a  lot  of  im 
pudent  gab,  that  one,  with  her  don't  do  this  and 
don't  do  that!  It's  a  wonder  you  wouldn't  speak 
up  to  her  and  shut  her  mouth,  you  great  fool,  and 
you  pay  in'  money  to  give  her  her  job.  [Disgust 
edly.]  You've  no  spunk  in  you. 

CARMODY — [Placatingly.]  Would  you  have  me 
raisin'  a  shindy  when  Eileen's  leavin'  here  in  a  day 
or  more?  What'd  be  the  use? 

MRS.  BRENNAN — In  the  new  place  she's  goin'  you'll 
Hot  have  to  pay  a  cent,  and  that's  a  blessing!  It's 
small  good  they've  done  her  here  for  all  the  money 
they've  taken.  [Gazing  about  the  room  critically. ] 
It's  neat  and  clean  enough;  and  why  shouldn't  it, 
a  tiny  room  and  the  lot  of  them  nothing  to  do  all 
clay  but  scrub.  [Scornfully.'}  Two  sticks  of  chairs 
and  a  table !  They  don't  give  much  for  the  money. 

CARMODY — Catch  them!  It's  a  good  thing  she's 
clearin'  out  of  this  and  her  worse  off  after  them 
curin'  her  eight  months  than  she  was  when  she  came. 
She'll  maybe  get  well  in  the  new  place. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Indifferently.]  It's  God's  will, 
what'll  happen.  [Irritably.]  And  I'm  thinkin'  it's 
His  punishment  she's  under  now  for  having  no  heart 
in  her  and  never  writin'  home  a  word  to  you  or  the 


THE  STRAW  109 

children  in  two  months  or  more.  If  the  doctor 
hadn't  wrote  us  himself  to  come  see  her,  she  was 
sick,  we'd  have  been  no  wiser. 

CARMODY — Whisht!  Don't  be  blamin'  a  sick  girl. 

MARY — [Who  has  drifted  to  one  of  the  windows 
at  right — curiously.]  There's  somebody  in  bed  out 
there.  I  can't  see  her  face.  Is  it  Eileen? 

MRS.  BRENNAN — Don't  be  goin'  out  there  till  I 
tell  you,  you  imp  !  I  must  speak  to  your  father  first. 
[Coming  closer  to  him  and  lowering  her  voice.]  Are 
you  going  to  tell  her  about  it? 

CARMODY — [Pretending  ignorance]  About  what? 

MRS.  BRENNAN — About  what,  indeed !  Don't  pre 
tend  you  don't  know.  About  our  marryin*  two  weeks 
back,  of  course.  What  else? 

CARMODY — [Uncertainly]  Yes — I  disremem- 
bered  she  didn't  know.  I'll  have  to  tell  her,  surely. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Flaring  up]  You  speak  like 
you  wouldn't.  Is  it  shamed  of  me  you  are?  Are 
you  afraid  of  a  slip  of  a  girl?  Well,  then,  I'm  not! 
I'll  tell  her  to  her  face  soon  enough. 

CARMODY — [Angry  in  his  turn — assertively] 
You'll  not,  now!  Keep  your  mouth  out  of  this  and 
your  rough  tongue !  I  tell  you  I'll  tell  her. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Satisfied]  Let's  be  going  out 
to  her,  then.  [They  move  toward  the  door  to  the 
porch]  And  keep  your  eye  on  your  watch.  We 
mustn't  miss  the  train.  Come  with  us,  Mary,  and 
remember  to  keep  your  mouth  shut.  [They  go  out 
on  the  porch  and  stand  just  outside  the  door  wait- 


110  THE  STRAW 

ing  for  Eileen  to  notice  them;  but  the  girl  in  bed  con 
tinues  to  stare  into  the  woods,  oblivious  to  their 
presence.] 

MRS.  BRENANN — [Nudging  CARMODY  with  her 
elbow — in  a  harsh  whisper .]  She  don't  see  us.  It's  a 
clream  she's  in  with  her  eyes  open.  Glory  be,  it's 
bad  she's  lookin'.  The  look  on  her  face'd  frighten 
you.  Speak  to  her,  you !  [Eileen  stirs  uneasily  as  if 
this  whisper  had  disturbed  her  unconsciously.] 

CARMODYT — [Wetting  his  lips  and  clearing  his 
throat  huskily.]  Eileen. 

EILEEN — [Startled,  turns  and  stares  at  them  with 
frightened  eyes.  After  a  pause  she  ventures  uncer 
tainly  as  if  she  were  not  sure  but  what  these  figures 
might  be  creatures  of  her  dream.]  Father.  [Her  eyes 
shift  to  MRS.  BRENNAN'S  face  and  she  shudders.] 
Mrs.  Brennan. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Quickly — in  a  voice  meant  to 
be  kindly.]  Here  we  are,  all  of  us,  come  to  see  you. 
How  is  it  you're  feelin'  now,  Eileen?  [While  she  is 
talking  she  advances  to  the  bedside,  followed  by 
CARMODY,  and  takes  one  of  the  sick  girl's  hands  in 
hers.  Eileen  withdraws  it  as  if  stung  and  holds  it 
out  to  her  father.  Mrs.  Brennan  s  face  flushes 
angrily  and  she  draws  back  from  the  bedside.] 

CARMODY — [Moved — with  rough  tenderness  pat 
ting  her  hand.]  Ah,  Eileen,  sure  it's  a  sight  for 
sore  eyes  to  see  you  again !  [He  bends  down  as  if  to 
kiss  her,  but,  struck  by  a  sudden  fear,  hesitates, 
straightens  himself,  and  shamed  by  the  understand- 


THE  STRAW  111 

ing  m  Eileen's  eyes,  grows  red  and  stammers  con 
fusedly.]  How  are  you  now?  Sure  it's  the  picture 
of  health  you're  lookin'.  [Eileen  sighs  and  turns 
her  eyes  away  from  him  with  a  resigned  sadness.] 

MRS.  BRENNAN — What  are  you  standin'  there  for 
like  a  stick,  Mary?  Haven't  you  a  word  to  say 
to  your  sister? 

EILEEN — [Twisting  her  head  around  and  seeing 
Mary  for  the  first  time — with  a  glad  cry]  Mary! 
I — why  I  didn't  see  you  before !  Come  here.  [Mary 
approaches  gingerly  with  apprehensive  side  glances 
at  Mrs.  Brennan  who  watches  her  grimly.  Eileen's 
arms  reach  out  for  her  hungrily.  She  grasps  her 
about  the  waist  and  seems  trying  to  press  the  un 
willing  child  to  her  breast] 

MARY — [Fidgetting  nervously — suddenly  in  a 
frightened  whine]  Let  me  go  !  [Eileen  releases  her9 
looks  at  her  face  dazedly  for  a  second,  then  falls 
back  limply  with  a  little  moan  and  shuts  her  eyes. 
Mary,  who  has  stepped  back  a  pace,  remains  fixed 
there  as  if  fascinated  with  fright  by  her  sister's  face. 
She  stammers.]  Eileen — you  look  so — so  funny. 

EILEEN — [Without  opening  her  eyes — m  a  dead 
voice]  You,  too!  I  never  thought  you —  Go  away, 
please. 

MRS^  BRENNAN — [With  satisfaction]  Come  here 
to  me,  Mary,  and  don't  be  botherin'  your  sister. 
[Mary  avoids  her  step-mother  but  retreats  to  the 
far  end  of  the  porch  where  she  stands  shrunk  back 


•118  THE  STRAW 

against  the  wall,  her  eyes  fixed  on  Eileen  with  the 
same  fascinated  horror.] 

CARMODY — [After  an  uncomfortable  pause,  /ore- 
ing  himself  to  speak.]  Is  the  pain  bad,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Dully — without  opening  her  eyes.] 
^here's  no  pain.  [There  is  another  pause — then 
she  murmurs  indifferently.]  There  are  chairs  in 
the  room  you  can  bring  out  if  you  want  to  sit  down. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Sharply.]  We've  not  time  to 
be  sittin'.  We've  the  train  back  to  catch. 

EILEEN — [In  the  same  lifeless  voice.]  It's  a  dis 
agreeable  trip.  I'm  sorry  you  had  to  come. 

CARMODY — [Fighting  against  an  oppression  he 
cannot  understand,  bursts  into  a  flood  of  words.] 
Don't  be  talking  of  the  trip.  Sure  we're  glad  to 
take  it  to  get  a  sight  of  you.  It's  three  months 
since  I've  had  a  look  at  you  and  I  was  anxious. 
Why  haven't  you  written  a  line  to  us?  You  could 
do  that  without  trouble,  surely.  Don't  you  ever 
think  of  us  at  all  any  more?  [He  waits  for  an  an 
swer  but  EILEEN  remains  silent  with  her  eyes  closed. 
CARMODY  starts  to  walk  up  and  down  talking  with 
an  air  of  desperation.]  You're  not  asking  a  bit 
of  news  from  home.  I'm  thinkin'  the  people  out 
here  have  taken  all  the  thought  of  us  out  of  your 
head.  We're  all  well,  thank  God.  I've  another 
good  job  on  the  streets  from  Murphy  and  one  that'll 
last  a  long  time,  praise  be!  I'm  needin'  it  surely, 
with  all  the  expenses — but  no  matter.  Billy  had  a 
raise  from  his  old  skinflint  of  a  boss  a  month  back. 


.THE  STRAW  113 

He's  gettin'  seven  a  week  now  and  proud  as  a  turkey. 
He  was  comin'  out  with  us  today  but  he'd  a  date  with 
his  girl.  Sure,  he's  got  a  girl  now,  the  young  bucko ! 
What  d'you  think  of  him?  It's  old  Malloy's  girl 
he's  after — the  pop-eyed  one  with  glasses,  you  re 
member — as  ugly  as  a  blind  sheep,  only  he  don't 
think  so.  He  said  to  give  you  his  love.  [EILEEN 
stirs  and  sighs  wearily,  a  frown  appearing  for  an 
instant  on  her  forehead.']  And  Tom  and  Nora  was 
comin'  out  too,  but  Father  Fitz  had  some  doin's  or 
other  up  to  the  school,  and  he  told  them  to  be  there, 
so  they  wouldn't  come  with  us,  but  they  sent  their 
love  to  you  too.  They're  growin'  so  big  you'd  not 
know  them.  Tom's  no  good  at  the  school.  He's  like 
Billy  was.  I've  had  to  take  the  strap  to  him  often. 
He's  always  playin'  hooky  and  roamin'  the  streets. 
And  Nora — [With  pride.~\  There's  the  divil  for  you! 
Up  to  everything  she  is  and  no  holdin'  her  high 
spirits.  As  pretty  as  a  picture,  and  the  smartest 
girl  in  her  school,  Father  Fitz  says.  Am  I  lyin', 
Maggie? 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Grudgingly.]  She's  smart 
enough — and  too  free  with  her  smartness. 

CARMODY — [Pleased]  Ah,  don't  be  talkin'! 
She'll  know  more  than  the  lot  of  us  before  she's 
grown  even.  [He  pauses  in  his  walk  and  stares  down 
at  EILEEN,  frowning.]  Are  you  sick,  EILEEN,  that 
you're  keepin'  your  eyes  shut  without  a  word  out 
of  you? 

EILEEN — [Wearily.]     No.    I'm  tired,  that's  all. 


114  THE  STRAW 

CARMODY — [Resuming  his  walk]  And  who  else 
is  there,  let  me  think?  Oh,  Mary — she's  the  same 
as  ever,  you  can  see  for  yourself. 

EILEEN — [Bitterly.]     The  same?     Oh,  no! 

CARMODY — She's  grown,  you  mean?  I  suppose. 
You'd  notice,  not  seeing  her  so  long?  [He  can  think 
of  nothing  else  to  say  but  walks  up  and  down  with 
a  restless,  uneasy  expression.] 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Sharply]  What  time  is  it 
gettin'? 

CARMODY — [Fumbles  for  his  watch]  Half  past 
four,  a  bit  after. 

MRS.  BRENNAN — We'll  have  to  leave  soon.  It's  a 
long  jaunt  down  that  hill  in  that  buggy.  [She 
catches  his  eye  and  makes  violent  signs  to  him  to 
tell  EILEEN  what  he  has  come  to  tell] 

CARMODY — [After  an  uncertain  pause — clenching 
his  fists  and  clearing  his  throat.]  Eileen. 

EILEEN — Yes. 

CARMODY — [Irritably]  Can't  you  open  your  eyes 
on  me?  It's  like  talkin'  to  myself  I  am? 

EILEEN — [Looking  at  him — dully]     What  is  it? 

CARMODY — [Stammering — avoiding  her  glance] 
It's  this,  Eileen — me  and  Maggie — Mrs.  Brennan, 
that  is — we 

EILEEN — [Without  surprise]  You're  going  to 
marry  her  ? 

CARMODY — [Wr«£/&  an  effort.]  Not  goin'  to.  It's 
done. 

EILEEN — [Without  a  trace  of  feeling.]     Oh,  so 


THE  STRAW  115 

you've   been   married    already?      [Without   further 
comment,  she  closes  her  eyes.] 

CARMODY — Two  weeks  back  we  were,  by  Father 
Fitz.  [He  stands  staring  down  at  his  daughter,  irri 
tated,  perplexed  and  confounded  by  her  silence,  look 
ing  as  if  he  longed  to  shake  her.] 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Angry  at  the  lack  of  enthusi 
asm  shown  by  EILEEN.]  Let  us  get  out  of  this,  Bill. 
We're  not  wanted,  that's  plain  as  the  nose  on  your 
face.  It's  little  she's  caring  about  you,  and  little 
thanks  she  has  for  all  you've  done  for  her  and  the 
money  you've  spent. 

CARMODY — [With  a  note  of  pleading.]  Is  that  a 
proper  way  to  be  treatin'  your  father,  Eileen,  after 
what  I've  told  you?  Have  you  no  heart  in  you 
at  all?  Is  it  nothin'  to  you  you've  a  good,  kind 
woman  now  for  mother? 

EILEEN — [Fiercely,  her  eyes  flashing  open  on 
him.]  No,  No!  Never! 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Plucking  at  CARMODY'S  elbow. 
He  stands  looking  at  EILEEN  helplessly,  his  mouth 
open,  a  guilty  flush  spreading  over  his  face.]  Come 
out  of  here,  you  big  fool,  you!  Is  it  to  listen  to 
insults  to  your  livin'  wife  you're  waiting?  Am  I 
to  be  tormented  and  you  never  raise  a  hand  to  stop 
her? 

CARMODY — [Turning  on  her  threateningly.]  Will 
you  shut  your  gab? 

EILEEN — [With  a  moan.]  Oh,  go  away,  Father! 
Please !  Take  her  away ! 


116  THE  STRAW 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [Pulling  at  his  arm.~\  Take  me 
away  this  second  or  I'll  go  on  without  you  and 
never  speak  again  to  you  till  the  day  I  die! 

CARMODY — [Pushes  her  violently  away  from  him 
— raging,  his  fist  uplifted.]  Shut  your  gab,  I'm 
saying ! 

MRS.  BRENNAN — The  divil  mend  you  and  yours 
then!  I'm  leavin'  you.  [She  starts  for  the  door.] 

CARMODY — [Hastily.]  Wait  a  bit,  Maggie.  I'm 
comin'.  [She  goes  into  the  room,  slamming  the  door, 
but  once  inside  she  stands  still,  trying  to  listen. 
CARMODY  glares  down  at  his  daughter's  pale  twitch 
ing  face  with  the  closed  eyes.  Finally  he  croaks  in 
a  whining  tone  of  fear."]  Is  your  last  word  a  cruel 
one  to  me  this  day,  Eileen?  [She  remains  silent. 
His  face  darkens.  He  turns  and  strides  out  of  the 
door ^  Mary  darts  after  him  with  a  frightened  cry 
of  f(Papa."  EILEEN  covers  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  a  shudder  of  relief  runs  over  her  body.] 

MRS.  BRENNAN — [As  CARMODY  enters  the  room — 
in  a  mollified  tone.]  So  you've  come,  have  you? 
Let's  go,  then?  [CARMODY  stands  looking  at  her  in 
silence,  his  expression  full  of  gloomy  rage.  She 
bursts  out  impatiently.]  Are  you  comin'  or  are  you 
goin*  back  to  her?  [She  grabs  MARY'S  arm  and 
pushes  her  toward  the  door  to  the  hall.]  Are  you 
comin'  or  not,  I'm  asking? 

CARMODY — [Somberly — as  if  to  himself.]  There's 
something  wrong  in  the  whole  of  this — that  I  can't 
make  out.  [With  sudden  fury  he  brandishes  his  fists 


THE  STRAW  117 

as  though  defying  someone  and  growls  threaten 
ingly  J\  And  I'll  get  drunk  this  night — dead,  rotten 
drunk!  [He  seems  to  detect  disapproval  in  MRS. 
BRENNAN'S  face  for  he  shakes  his  fist  at  her  and 
repeats  like  a  solemn  oath.~\  I'll  get  drunk  this 
night,  I'm  sayin'!  I'll  get  drunk  if  my  soul  roasts 
for  it — and  no  one  in  the  whole  world  is  strong 
enough  to  stop  me !  [MRS.  BRENNAN  turns  from 
him  with  a  Disgusted  shrug  of  her  shoulders  and 
hustles  MARY  out  of  the  door.  CARMODY,  after  a 
second's  pause,  follows  them.  EILEEN  lies  still,  look 
ing  out  into  the  woods  with  empty,  desolate  eyes. 
Miss  HOWARD  comes  into  the  room  from  the  hall  and 
goes  to  the  porch,  carrying  a  glass  of  milk  in  her 
hand.~\ 

Miss  HOWARD — Here's  your  diet,  Eileen.  I  for 
got  it  until  just  now.  Sundays  are  awful  days, 
aren't  they?  They  get  me  all  mixed  up  in  my  work, 
with  all  these  visitors  around.  Did  you  have  a  nice 
visit  with  your  folks  ? 

EILEEN — [Forcing  a  smile.'}     Yes. 

Miss  HOWARD — You  look  worn  out.  I  hope  they 
didn't  worry  you  over  home  affairs  ? 

EILEEN — No.  [She  sips  her  milk  and  sets  it  back 
on  the  table  with  a  shudder  of  disgust. ] 

Miss  HOWARD — [With  a  smile.]  What  a  face! 
You'd  think  you  were  taking  poison. 

EILEEN — I  hate  it!  [With  deep  passion.]  I 
wish  it  was  poison ! 

Miss  HOWARD — [Jokingly.]    Oh,  come  now!  That 


118  THE  STRAW 

isn't  a  nice  way  to  feel  on  the  Sabbath.  [With  a 
meaning  smile.]  I've  some  news  that'll  cheer  you 
up,  I  bet.  [Archly.]  Guess  who's  here  on  a  visit? 

EILEEN — [Startled- — m  a  frightened  whisper.] 
Who? 

Miss  HOWARD — Mr.  Murray.  [EILEEN  closes  her 
eyes  wincingly  "for  a  moment  and  a  shadow  of  pain 
comes  over  her  face.]  He  just  came  about  the  time 
your  folks  did.  I  saw  him  for  a  moment,  not  to  speak 
to.  He  was  going  to  the  main  building — to  see  Doc 
tor  Stanton,  I  suppose.  [Beaming — with  a  certain 
curiosity.]  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  news? 

EILEEN — [Trying  to  conceal  her  agitation  and 
assume  a  casual  tone.]  He  must  have  come  to  be  ex 
amined. 

Miss  HOWARD — [With  a  meaning  laugh.]  Oh, 
I'd  hardly  say  that  was  his  main  reason.  He  does 
look  much  thinner  and  very  tired,  though.  I  sup 
pose  he's  been  working  too  hard.  [In  business-like 
tones.]  Well,  I've  got  to  get  back  on  the  job.  [She 
turns  to  the  door  calling  back  jokingly.]  He'll  be 
in  to  see  you  of  course,  so  look  your  prettiest.  [She 
goes  out  and  shuts  the  door  to  the  porch.  EILEEN 
gives  a  frightened  gasp  and  struggles  up  m  bed  as 
if  she  wanted  to  call  the  nurse  to  return.  Then  she 
lies  back  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  excitement, 
twisting  her  head  with  eager,  -fearful  glances  toward 
the  door,  listening,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  thin 
fingers  on  the  white  spread.  As  Miss  HOWARD  walks 
across  the  room  to  the  hall  door,  it  is  opened  and 


THE  STRAW  119 

STEPHEN  MURRAY  enters.  A  great  change  is  visible 
in  his  face.  It  is  much  thinner  and  the  former  healthy 
tan  has  faded  to  a  sallow  pallor.  Puffy  shadows  of 
sleeplessness  and  dissipation  are  marked  under  his 
heavy-lidded  eyes.  He  is  dressed  in  a  well-fitting, 
expensive,  dark  suit,  a  white  shirt  with  a  soft  collar 
and  bright-colored  tie.'] 

Miss  HOWARD — [With  pleased  surprise,  holding 
out  her  hand.]  Hello,  Mr.  Murray. 

MURRAY — [Shaking  her  hand — with  a  forced 
pleasantness.]  How  are  you,  Miss  Howard? 

Miss  HOWARD — Fine  as  ever.  It  certainly  looks 
natural  to  see  you  around  here  again — not  that  I 
hope  you're  here  to  stay,  though.  [With  a  smile.'] 
I  suppose  you're  on  your  way  to  Eileen  now.  Well, 
I  won't  keep  you.  I've  oodles  of  work  to  do.  [She 
opens  the  hall  door.  He  starts  for  the  porch.]  Oh, 
I  was  forgetting — Congratulations !  I've  read  those 
stories — all  of  us  have.  They're  great.  We're  all 
so  proud  of  you.  You're  one  of  our  graduates,  you 
know. 

MURRAY — [Indifferently.]     Oh, — that  stuff. 

Miss  HOWARD — [Gaily.]  Don't  be  so  modest. 
Well,  see  you  later,  I  hope. 

MURRAY — Yes.  Doctor  Stanton  invited  me  to 
stay  for  supper  and  I  may 

Miss  HOWARD — Fine !  Be  sure  to !  \She  goes 
out.  MURRAY  walks  to  porch  door  and  steps  out. 
He  -finds  EILEEN'S  eyes  waiting  for  him.  As  their 
eyes  meet  she  gasps  involuntarily  and  he  stops  short 


120  THE  STRAW 

in  his  tracks.  For  a  moment  they  remain  looking  at 
each  other  in  silence. ] 

EILEEN — [Dropping  her  eyes — faintly.}  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [Much  moved,  strides  to  her  bedside 
and  takes  her  hands  awkwardly.]  Eileen.  [Then 
after  a  second's  pause  m  which  he  searches  her  face 
and  is  shocked  by  the  change  illness  has  made — anx 
iously.]  How  are  you  feeling,  Eileen?  [He  grows 
confused  by  her  gaze  and  his  eyes  shift  from  hers, 
which  search  his  face  with  wild  yearning.] 

EILEEN — [Forcing  a  smile.]  Oh,  I'm  all  right. 
[Eagerly.]  But  you,  Stephen?  How  are  you? 
[Excitedly.]  Oh,  it's  good  to  see  you  again!  [Her 
eyes  continue  fixed  on  his  face  pleadingly,  question- 
ingly.] 

MURRAY — [Haltingly.]  And  it's  sure  great  to  see 
you  again,  Eileen.  [He  releases  her  hand  and  turns 
away.]  And  I'm  fine  and  dandy.  I  look  a  little 
done  up,  I  guess,  but  that's  only  the  result  of  too 
much  New  York. 

EILEEN — [Sensing  from  his  manner  that  whatever 
she  has  hoped  for  from  his  visit  is  not  to  be,  sinks 
back  on  the  pillows,  shutting  her  eyes  hopelessly, 
and  cannot  control  a  sigh  of  pain.] 

MURRAY — [Turning  to  her  anxiously.]  What's 
the  matter,  Eileen?  You're  not  in  pain,  are  you? 

EILEEN — [Wearily.]     No. 

MURRAY — You  haven't  been  feeling  badly  lately, 
have  you?  Your  letters  suddenly  stopped — not  a 
line  for  the  past  three  weeks — and  I 


THE  STRAW  121 

EILEEN — [Bitterly.]  I  got  tired  of  writing  and 
never  getting  any  answer,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [Shame-faced.]  Come,  Eileen,  it  wasn't 
as  bad  as  that.  You'd  think  I  never — and  I  did 
write,  didn't  I? 

EILEEN — Right  after  you  left  here,  you  did,  Ste 
phen.  Lately 

MURRAY — I'm  sorry,  Eileen.  It  wasn't  that  I 
didn't  mean  to — but — in  New  York  it's  so  hard. 
You  start  to  do  one  thing  and  something  else  inter 
rupts  you.  You  never  seem  to  get  any  one  thing 
done  when  it  ought  to  be.  You  can  understand  that, 
can't  you,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Sadly.]  Yes.  I  understand  every 
thing  now. 

MURRAY — [Offended."]  What  do  you  mean  by  ev 
erything?  You  said  that  so  strangely.  You  mean 

you  don't  believe [But  she  remains  silent  with 

her  eyes  shut.  He  -frowns  and  takes  to  pacing  up  and 
down  beside  the  bed.]  Why  have  they  got  you  stuck 
out  here  on  this  isolation  porch,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Dully.]  There  was  no  room  on  the 
main  porch,  I  suppose. 

MURRAY — You  never  mentioned  in  any  of  your 
letters 

EILEEN — It's  not  very  cheerful  to  get  letters  full 
of  sickness.  I  wouldn't  like  to,  I  know. 

MURRAY — [Hurt]  That  isn't  fair,  Eileen.  You 

know  I How  long  have  you  been  back  in  the 

Infirmary  ? 


THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — About  a  month. 

MURRAY — '[Shocked.']  A  month!  But  you  were 
up  and  about — on  exercise,  weren't  you — before 
that? 

EILEEN — No.  I  had  to  stay  in  bed  while  I  was 
at  the  cottage. 

MURRAY — You  mean — ever  since  that  time  they 
sent  you  back — the  day  before  I  left  ? 

EILEEN — Yes. 

MURRAY — But  I  thought  from  the  cheery  tone  of 
your  letters  that  you  were 

EILEEN — [Uneasily.']  Getting  better?  I  am, 
Stephen.  I'm  strong  enough  to  be  up  now  but  Doc 
tor  Stanton  wants  me  to  take  a  good  long  rest  this 

time  so  that  when  I  do  get  up  again  I'll  be  sure 

[She  breaks  off  impatiently.]  But  don't  let's  talk 
about  it.  I'm  all  right.  [MURRAY  glances  down  at 
her  face  worriedly.  She  changes  the  subject.] 
You've  been  over  to  see  Doctor  Stanton,  haven't 
you? 

MURRAY — Yes. 

EILEEN — Did  he  examine  you? 

MURRAY — Yes.  [Carelessly.]  Oh,  he  found  me 
O.K.  I'm  fine  and  dandy,  as  I  said  before. 

EILEEN — I'm  glad,  Stephen.  [After  a  pause."] 
Tell  about  yourself — what  you've  been  doing.  You've 
written  a  lot  lately,  haven't  you? 

MURRAY — [Frowning.]  No.  I  haven't  been  able 
to  get  down  to  it — somehow.  There's  so  little  time 
to  yourself  once  you  get  to  know  people  in  New 


THE  STRAW  123 

York.  The  sale  of  the  stories  you  typed  put  me  on 
easy  street  as  far  as  money  goes,  so  I've  felt  no 

need [He  laughs  weakly. ]  I  guess  I'm  one 

of  those  who  have  to  get  down  to  hard  pan  before 
they  get  the  kick  to  drive  them  to  hard  work. 

EILEEN — [Surprised.'}  Was  it  hard  work  writ 
ing  them  up  here?  You  used  to  seem  so  happy  just 
in  doing  them. 

MURRAY — I  was — happier  than  I've  been  before 
or  afterward.  [Cynically.]  But — I  don't  know — 
it  was  a  new  game  to  me  then  and  I  was  chuck  full 
of  illusions  about  the  glory  of  it.  [He  laughs  half 
heartedly.]  Now  I'm  hardly  a  bit  more  enthusiastic 
over  it  than  I  used  to  be  over  newspaper  work.  It's 
like  everything  else,  I  guess.  When  you've  got  it, 
you  find  you  don't  want  it. 

EILEEN — [Looking  at  him  wonderingly — dis 
turbed.]  But  isn't  just  the  writing  itself  worth 
while? 

MURRAY — [As  if  suddenly  ashamed  of  himself — 
quickly]  Yes.  Of  course  it  is.  I'm  talking  like  a 
fool.  I'm  sore  at  everything  because  I'm  dissatisfied 
with  my  own  cussedness  and  laziness — and  I  want  to 
pass  the  buck.  [With  a  smile  of  cheerful  confidence] 
It's  only  a  fit.  I'll  come  out  of  it  all  right  and  get 
down  to  brass  tacks  again. 

EILEEN — [With  an  encouraging  smile]  That's 
the  way  you  ought  to  feel.  It'd  be  wrong — I've  read 
the  two  stories  that  have  come  out  so  far  over  and 
over.  They're  fine,  I  think.  Every  line  in  them 


THE  STRAW 

sounds  like  you,  and  at  the  same  time  sounds  natural 
and  like  people  and  things  you  see  every  day.  Ev 
erybody  thinks  they're  fine,  Stephen. 

MURRAY — [Pleased  but  pretending  cynicism.] 
Then  they  must  be  rotten.  [Then  with  self-assur 
ance.'}  Well,  I've  plenty  more  of  those  stories  in  my 
head.  Every  time  I  think  of  my  home  town  there 
seems  to  be  a  new  story  in  someone  I've  known  there. 
[Spiritedly.]  Oh,  I'll  pound  them  out  sometime 
when  the  spirit  moves ;  and  I'll  make  them  so  much 
better  than  what  I've  done  so  far,  you  won't  recog 
nize  them.  I  feel  it's  in  me  to  do  it.  [Smiling.'] 
Darn  it,  do  you  know  just  talking  about  it  makes, 
me  feel  as  if  I  could  sit  right  down  now  and  start  in 
on  one.  Is  it  the  fact  Fve  worked  here  before — or 
is  it  seeing  you,  Eileen?  [Gratefully.]  I  really  be 
lieve  it's  you.  I  haven't  forgotten  how  you  helped 
me  before. 

EILEEN — [In  a  tone  of  pain.]  Don't,  Stephen. 
I  didn't  do  anything. 

MURRAY — [Eagerly.]  Yes,  you  did.  You  made 
it  possible.  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  help  you  were. 
And  since  I've  left  the  San,  I've  looked  forward  to 
your  letters  to  boost  up  my  spirits.  When  I  felt 
down  in  the  mouth  over  my  own  idiocy,  I  used  to  re 
read  them,  and  they  always  were  good  medicine.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  grateful  I've  felt,  honestly ! 

EILEEN — [Faintly.]  You're  kind  to  say  so,  Ste 
phen — but  it  was  nothing,  really. 

MURRAY — And  I  can't  tell  you  how  I've  missed 


THE  STRAW  125 

those  letters  for  the  past  three  weeks.  They  left  a 
big  hole  in  things.  I  was  worried  about  you — not 
having  heard  a  word.  [With  a  smile .]  So  I  came 
to  look  you  up. 

EILEEN — [Faintly,  forcing  an  answering  smile.'} 
Well,  you  see  now  Fm  all  right. 

MURRAY — [Concealing  his  doubt.}  Yes,  of  course 
you  are.  Only  I'd  a  darn  sight  rather  see  you  up 
and  about.  We  could  take  a  walk,  then — through 
the  woods.  [A  wince  of  pain  shadows  EILEEN'S  face. 
She  closes  her  eyes.  MURRAY  continues  softly,  after 
a  pause.}  You  haven't  forgotten  that  last  night — 
out  there — Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Her  lips  trembling — trying  to  force  a 
laugh.}  Please  don't  remind  me  of  that,  Stephen.  I 
was  so  silly  and  so  siclf,  too.  My  temp  was  so  high 
it  must  have  made  me — completely  crazy — or  I'd 
never  dreamed  of  doing  such  a  stupid  thing.  My 
head  must  have  been  full  of  wheels  because  I  don't 
remember  anything  I  did  or  said,  hardly. 

MURRAY — [His  pride  taken  down  a  peg  by  this — 
in  a  hurt  tone.}  Oh!  Well — I  haven't  forgotten 
and  I  never  will,  Eileen.  [Then  his  face  clears  up 
as  if  a  weight  had  been  taken  off  his  conscience.} 
Well — I  rather  thought  you  wouldn't  take  it 
seriously — afterward.  You  were  all  up  in  the  air 
that  night.  And  you  never  mentioned  it  in  your 
letters 

EILEEN — [Pleadingly.}  Don't  talk  about  it! 
Forget  it  ever  happened.  It  makes  me  feel — 


126  THE  STRAW 

[with     a     half -hysterical     laugh] — like     a      fool ! 

MURRAY — [Worried.]  All  right,  Eileen.  I  won't. 
Don't  get  worked  up  over  nothing.  That  isn't  rest 
ing,  you  know.  [Looking  down  at  her  closed  eyes — 
solicitously.]  Perhaps  all  my  talking  has  tired  you 
out  ?  Do  you  feel  done  up  ?  Why  don't  you  try  and 
take  a  nap  now? 

EILEEN — [Dully.']    Yes,  I'd  like  to  sleep. 

MURRAY — [Clasps  her  hands  gently.]  I'll  leave 
you  then.  I'll  drop  back  to  say  good-bye  and  stay 
awhile  before  I  go.  I  won't  leave  until  the  last 
train.  [As  she  doesn't  answer.]  Do  you  hear, 
Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Weakly.]  Yes.  You'll  come  back — 
to  say  good-bye. 

MURRAY — Yes.  I'll  be  back  sure.  [He  presses 
her  hand  and  after  a  kindly  glance  of  sympathy 
down  at  her  face,  tip-toes  to  the  door  and  goes  into 
the  room,  shutting  the  door  behind  him.  When  she 
hears  the  door  shut  EILEEN  struggles  up  in  bed  and 
stretches  her  arms  after  him  with  an  agonized  sob 
"Stephen!"  She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobs 
brokenly.  MURRAY  walks  across  to  the  hall  door  and 
is  about  to  go  out  when  the  door  is  opened  and  Miss 
GILPIN  enters.] 

Miss  GILPIN — [Hurriedly.]  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Murray.  Doctor  Stanton  just  told  me  you  were 
here. 

MURRAY — [As  they  shake  hands — smiling.]  How 
are  you,  Miss  Gilpin  ? 


THE  STRAW  127 

Miss  GILPIN — He  said  he'd  examined  you,  and 
that  you  were  O.K.  I'm  glad.  [Glancing  at  him 
keenly. ~\  You've  been  talking  to  Eileen? 

MURRAY — Just  left  her  this  second.  She  wanted 
to  sleep  for  a  while. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Wonderingly .]  Sleep?  [Then 
hurriedly.]  It's  too  bad.  I  wish  I'd  known  you  were 
here  sooner.  I  wanted  very  much  to  talk  to  you 
before  you  saw  Eileen.  You  see,  I  knew  you'd  pay 
us  a  visit  sometime.  [With  a  worried  smile.']  I  still 
think  I  ought  to  have  a  talk  with  you. 

MURRAY — Certainly,  Miss  Gilpin. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Takes  a  chair  and  places  it  near 
the  hall  door.]  Sit  down.  She  can't  hear  us  here. 
Goodness  knows  this  is  hardly  the  place  for  confi 
dences,  but  there  are  visitors  all  over  and  it'll  have 
to  do.  Did  you  close  the  door  tightly?  She  mustn't 
hear  me  above  all.  [She  goes  to  the  porch  door  and 
peeks  out  for  a  moment;  then  comes  back  to  him  with 
flashing  eyes.]  She's  crying!  What  have  you  been 
saying  to  her?  Oh,  it's  too  late,  I  know!  The 
fools  shouldn't  have  permitted  you  to  see  her  before 

I What  has  happened  out  there?     Tell  me! 

I  must  know. 

MURRAY — [Stammering.]  Happened?  Nothing. 
She's  crying?  Why  Miss  Gilpin — you  know  I 
wouldn't  hurt  her  for  worlds. 

Miss  GILPIN — [More  calmly.]  Intentionally,  I 
know  you  wouldn't.  But  something  has  happened. 
[Then  briskly.]  We're  talking  at  cross  purposes. 


128  THE  STRAW 

Since  you  don't  seem  inclined  to  confide  in  me,  I'll 
have  to  in  you.  You  noticed  how  badly  she  looks, 
didn't  you? 

MURRAY — Yes,  I  did. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Gravely.]  She's  been  going  down 
hill  steadily — [meanmgly] — ever  since  you  left. 
She's  in  a  very  serious  state,  let  me  impress  you  with 
that.  We've  all  loved  her,  and  felt  so  sorry  for  her 
and  admired  her  spirit  so — that's  the  only  reason 
she's  been  allowed  to  stay  here  so  long  after  her  time. 
We've  kept  hoping  she'd  start  to  pick  up — in  an 
other  day — in  another  week.  But  now  that's  all 
over.  Doctor  Stanton  has  given  up  hope  of  her 
improving  here,  and  her  father  is  unwilling  to  pay 
for  her  elsewhere  now  he  knows  there's  a  cheaper 
place — the  State  Farm.  So  she's  to  be  sent  there  in 
a  day  or  so. 

MURRAY — [Springing  to  his  feet — horrified.']  To 
the  State  Farm ! 

Miss  GILPIN — Her  time  here  is  long  past.  You 
know  the  rule — and  she  isn't  getting  better. 

MURRAY — [Appalled.]     That  means ! 

Miss  GILPIN — [Forcibly]  Death!  That's  what 
it  means  for  her ! 

MURRAY — [Stunned.]  Good  God,  I  never 
dreamed 

Miss  GILPIN — With  others  it  might  be  different. 
They  might  improve  under  changed  surroundings. 
In  her  case,  it's  certain.  She'll  die.  And  it  wouldn't 
do  any  good  to  keep  her  here,  either.  She'd  die 


THE  STRAW  129 

here.  She'll  die  anywhere.  She'll  die  because  lately 
she's  given  up  hope,  she  hasn't  wanted  to  live  any 
more.  She's  let  herself  go — and  now  it's  too  late. 

MURRAY — Too  late?  You  mean  there's  no  chance 
— now?  [Miss  GILPIN  nods.  MURRAY  is  over 
whelmed — after  a  pause — stammering.]  Isn't  there 
— anything — we  can  do? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Sadly.]  I  don't  know.  I  should 
have  talked  to  you  before  you —  You  see,  she's  seen 
you  now.  She  knows.  [As  Tie  looks  mystified  she 
continues  slowly.]  I  suppose  you  know  that  Eileen 
loves  you,  don't  you? 

MURRAY — [As  if  defending  himself  against  an  ac 
cusation — with  confused  alarm.]  No — Miss  Gilpin. 
You're  wrong,  honestly.  She  may  have  felt  some 
thing  like  that — once — but  that  was  long  ago  before 
I  left  the  San.  She's  forgotten  all  about  it  since,  I 
know  she  has.  [Miss  GILPIN  smiles  bitterly.]  Why, 
she  never  even  alluded  to  it  in  any  of  her  letters — 
all  these  months. 

Miss  GILPIN — Did  you  in  yours? 

MURRAY — No,  of  course  not.  You  don't  under 
stand.  Why — just  now — she  said  that  part  of  it 
had  all  been  so  silly  she  felt  she'd  acted  like  a  fool 
and  didn't  ever  want  to  be  reminded  of  it. 

Miss  GILPIN — She  saw  that  you  didn't  love  her — 
any  more  than  you  did  in  the  days  before  you  left. 
Oh,  I  used  to  watch  you  then.  I  sensed  what  was 
going  on  between  you.  I  would  have  stopped  it  then 
out  of  pity  for  her,  if  I  could  have,  if  I  didn't  know 


130  THE  STRAW 

that  any  interference  would  only  make  matters 
worse.  And  then  I  thought  that  it  might  be  only  a 
surface  affair — that  after  you  were  gone  it  would 
end  for  her.  [She  sighs — then  after  a  pause. .] 
You'll  have  to  forgive  me  for  speaking  to  you  so 
boldly  on  a  delicate  subject.  But,  don't  you  see,  it's 
for  her  sake.  I  love  Eileen.  We  all  do.  [Averting 
her  eyes  from  his — in  a  low  voice.]  I  know  how 
Eileen  feels,  Mr.  Murray.  Once — a  long  time  ago — 
I  suffered  as  she  is  suffering — from  this  same  mis 
take.  But  I  had  resources  to  fall  back  upon  that 
Eileen  hasn't  got — a  family  who  loved  me  and  un 
derstood — friends — so  I  pulled  through.  But  it 
spoiled  my  life  for  a  long  time.  [Looking  at  him 
again  and  forcing  a  smile.]  So  I  feel  that  perhaps 
I  have  a  right  to  speak  for  Eileen  who  has  no  one 
else. 

MURRAY — [Huskily — much  moved.]  Say  any 
thing  to  me  you  like,  Miss  Gilpin. 

Miss  GILPIN — [After  a  pause — sadly.]  You  don't 
love  her — do  you? 

MURRAY — No — I I  don't  believe  I've  ever 

thought  much  of  loving  anyone — that  way. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Sadly.]  Oh,  it's  too  late,  I'm 
afraid.  If  we  had  only  had  this  talk  before  you  had 
seen  her!  I  meant  to  talk  to  you  frankly  and  if  I 
found  out  you  didn't  love  Eileen — there  was  always 
the  forlorn  hope  that  you  might — I  was  going  to  tell 
you  not  to  see  her,  for  her  sake — not  to  let  her  face 
the  truth.  For  I  am  sure  she  continued  to  hope  in 


THE  STRAW  131 

spite  of  everything,  and  always  would — to  the  end — 
if  she  didn't  see  you.  I  was  going  to  implore  you  to 
stay  away,  to  write  her  letters  that  would  encourage 
her  hope,  and  in  that  way  she  would  never  learn  the 
truth.  I  thought  of  writing  you  all  this — but — it's 
so  delicate  a  matter — I  didn't  have  the  courage. 
[With  intense  grief.]  And  now  Doctor  Stanton's 
decision  to  send  her  away  makes  everything  doubly 
hard.  When  she  knows  that — she  will  throw  every 
thing  that  holds  her  to  life — out  of  the  window! 
And  think  of  it — her  dying  there  alone! 

MURRAY — [Very  pale.]  Don't!  That  shan't  hap 
pen.  I  can  at  least  save  her  from  that.  I  have 
money  enough — I'll  make  more — to  send  her  any 
place  you  think 

Miss  GILPIN — That  is  something — but  it  doesn't 
touch  the  source  of  her  unhappiness.  If  there  were 
only  some  way  to  make  her  happy  in  the  little  time 
that  is  left  to  her !  She  has  suffered  so  much  through 
you.  Oh,  Mr.  Murray,  can't  you  tell  her  you  love 
her? 

MURRAY — [After  a  pause — slowly.]  But  she'll 
never  believe  me,  I'm  afraid,  now. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Eagerly]  But  you  must  make 
her  believe!  And  you  must  ask  her  to  marry  you. 
If  you're  engaged  it  will  give  you  the  right  in  her 
eyes  to  take  her  away.  You  can  take  her  to  some 
private  San.  There's  a  small  place  but  a  very  good 
one  at  White  Lake.  It's  not  too  expensive,  and  it's 
a  beautiful  spot,  out  of  the  world,  and  you  can  live 


132  THE  STRAW 

and  work  nearby.  And  she'll  be  happy  to  the  very 
last.  Don't  you  think  that's  something — the  best 
you  have — the  best  you  can  give  in  return  for  her 
love  for  you? 

MURRAY — [Slowly — deeply  moved.]  Yes.  [Then 
determinedly.]  But  I  won't  go  into  this  thing  by 
halves.  It  isn't  fair  to  her.  I'm  going  to  marry 
her — yes,  I  mean  it.  I  owe  her  that  if  it  will  make 
her  happy.  But  to  ask  her  without  really  meaning 
it — knowing  she — no,  I  can't  do  that. 

Miss  GILPIN — [With  a  sad  smile.]  I'm  glad  you 
feel  that  way.  It  shouldn't  be  hard  now  for  you  to 
convince  her.  But  I  know  Eileen.  She  will  never 
consent — for  your  sake — until  she  is  well  again. 
And  stop  and  think,  Mr.  Murray.  Even  if  she  did 
consent  to  marry  you  right  now  the  shock — the  ex 
citement — it  would  be  suicide  for  her.  I  would  have 
to  warn  her  against  it  myself ;  and  you  wouldn't  pro 
pose  it  if  you  knew  the  danger  to  her  in  her  present 
condition.  She  hasn't  long  to  live,  at  best.  I've 
talked  with  Dr.  Stanton.  I  know.  God  knows  I 
would  be  the  first  one  to  hold  out  hope  if  there  was 
any.  There  isn't.  It's  merely  a  case  of  prolonging 
the  short  time  left  to  her  and  making  it  happy.  You 
must  bear  that  in  mind — as  a  fact ! 

MURRAY — [Dully.]  All  right.  I'll  remember. 
But  it's  hell  to  realize —  [He  turns  suddenly  to 
ward  the  porch  door.]  I'll  go  out  to  her  now  while 
I  feel — that — yes,  I  know  I  can  make  her  believe  me 
now. 


THE  STRAW 

Miss  GILPIN — You'll  tell  me — later  on? 

MURRAY — Yes.  [He  opens  the  door  to  the  porch 
and  goes  out.  Miss  GILPIN  stands  for  a  moment 
looking  after  him  worriedly.  Then  she  sighs  help 
lessly  and  goes  out  to  the  hall.  MURRAY  steps  noise 
lessly  out  on  the  porch.  EILEEN  is  lying  motionless 
with  her  eyes  closed.  MURRAY  stands  looking  at  her, 
his  face  showing  the  emotional  stress  he  is  under,  a 
great  pitying  tenderness  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  seems 
to  come  to  a  revealing  decision  on  what  is  best  to  do 
for  he  tiptoes  to  the  bedside  and  bending  down  with 
a  quick  movement,  takes  her  in  his  arm  and  kisses 
her.]  Eileen! 

EILEEN — [Startled  at  first,  resists  automatically 
for  a  moment.']  Stephen  !  [Then  she  succumbs  and 
lies  back  in  his  arms  with  a  happy  sigh,  putting 
both  hands  to  the  sides  of  his  face  and  staring  up 
at  him  adoringly.]  Stephen,  dear! 

MURRAY — [Quickly  questioning  her  before  she  can 
question  him.]  You  were  fibbing — about  that  night 
— weren't  you?  You  do  love  me,  don't  you,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — [Breathlessly.]  Yes — I — but  you,  Ste 
phen — you  don't  love  me.  [She  makes  a  movement 
as  if  to  escape  from  his  embrace.] 

MURRAY — [Genuinely  moved — with  tender  reas 
surance.]  Why  do  you  suppose  I  came  way  up  here 
if  not  to  tell  you  I  did  ?  But  they  warned  me — Miss 
Gilpin — that  you  were  still  weak  and  that  I  mustn't 
excite  you  in  any  way.  And  I — I  didn't  want — but 
I  had  to  come  back  and  tell  you  in  spite  of  them. 


134  THE  STRAW 

EILEEN — [Convinced — with  a  happy  laugh.']  And 
is  that  why  you  acted  so  strange — and  cold?  Aren't 
they  silly  to  tell  you  that !  As  if  being  happy  could 
hurt  me!  Why,  it's  just  that,  just  you  I've  needed! 

MURRAY — [His  voice  trembling.]  And  you'll 
marry  me,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — [A  shadow  of  doubt  crossing  her  face 
momentarily.]  Are  you  sure — you  want  me, 
Stephen  ? 

MURRAY — [A  lump  in  his  throat — huskily.]  Yes. 
I  do  want  you,  Eileen. 

EILEEN — [Happily.']  Then  I  will — after  I'm  well 
again,  of  course.  [She  kisses  him.] 

MURRAY — [Chokingly.]  That  won't  be  long  now, 
Eileen. 

EILEEN — [Joyously]  No — not  long — now  that 
I'm  happy  for  once  in  my  life.  I'll  surprise  you, 
Stephen,  the  way  I'll  pick  up  and  grow  fat  and 
healthy.  You  won't  know  me  in  a  month.  How  can 
you  ever  love  such  a  skinny  homely  thing  as  I  am 
now!  [With  a  laugh]  I  couldn't  if  I  was  a  man — 
love  such  a  fright. 

MURRAY — Ssshh ! 

EILEEN — [Confidently]  But  you'll  see  now.  I'll 
make  myself  get  well.  We  won't  have  to  wait  long, 
dear.  And  can't  you  move  up  to  the  town  near  here 
where  you  can  see  me  every  day,  and  you  can  work 
and  I  can  help  you  with  your  stories  just  as  I  used 
to — and  I'll  soon  be  strong  enough  to  do  your  typing 
again.  [She  laughs]  Listen  to  me — talking  about 


THE  STRAW  135 

helping  you— as  if  they  weren't  all  your  own  work, 
those  blessed  stories ! — as  if  I  had  anything  to  do 
with  it ! 

MURRAY — [Hoarsely.]  You  had!  You  did! 
They're  yours.  [Trying  to  calm  himself]  But  you 
mustn't  stay  here,  Eileen.  You'll  let  me  take  you 
away,  won't  you? — to  a  better  place — not  far  away 
— White  Lake,  it's  called.  There's  a  small  private 
sanatorium  there.  Doctor  Stanton  says  it's  one  of 
the  best.  And  I'll  live  nearby — it's  a  beautiful  spot 
— and  see  you  every  day. 

EILEEN — [In  the  seventh  heaven]  And  did  you 
plan  out  all  this  for  me  beforehand,  Stephen?  [He 
nods  with  averted  eyes.  She  kisses  his  hair]  You 
wonderful,  kind  dear!  And  it's  a  small  place — this 
White  Lake?  Then  we  won't  have  so  many  people 
around  to  disturb  us,  will  we?  We'll  be  all  to  our 
selves.  And  you  ought  to  work  so  well  up  there.  I 
know  New  York  wasn't  good  for  you — alone — with 
out  me.  And  I'll  get  well  and  strong  so  quick !  And 
you  say  it's  a  beautiful  place?  [Intensely]  Oh, 
Stephen,  any  place  in  the  world  would  be  beautiful 
to  me — if  you  were  with  me !  [His  face  is  hidden  in 
the  pillow  beside  her.  She  is  suddenly  startled  by  a 
muffled  sob — anxiously]  Why — Stephen — you're 
— you're  crying!  [The  tears  start  to  her  own 
eyes] 

MURRAY — [Raising  his  face  which  is  this  time 
alight  with  a  passionate  awakening — a  revelation] 


136  THE  STRAW 

Oh,  I  do  love  you,  Eileen!  I  do!  I  love  you,  love 
you! 

EILEEN — [Thrilled  by  the  depth  of  his  present 
sincerity — but  with  a  teasing  laugh.']  Why,  you 
say  that  as  if  you'd  just  made  the  discovery, 
Stephen ! 

MURRAY — Oh,  what  does  it  matter,  Eileen !  I  love 
you !  Oh,  what  a  blind  selfish  ass  I've  been !  I  love 
you!  You  are  my  life — everything!  I  love  you, 
Eileen !  I  do !  I  do !  And  we'll  be  married —  [Sud 
denly  his  face  grows  frozen  with  horror  as  he  remem 
bers  the  doom.  For  the  first  time  the  grey  spectre  of 
Death  confronts  him  face  to  face  as  a  menacing 
reality.  ] 

EILEEN — [Terrified  by  the  look  in  his  eyes.~\  What 
is  it,  Stephen  ?  What ? 

MURRAY — [With  a  groan — protesting  half- 
aloud  in  a  strangled  voice.]  No!  No!  It  can't 

be !  My  God!  [He  clutches  her  hands  and 

hides  his  face  in  them.] 

EILEEN — [With  a  cry.~\  Stephen!  What  is  the 
matter?  [Her  face  suddenly  betrays  an  awareness, 

an  intuitive  sense  of  the  truth.]  Oh — Stephen 

[Then  with  a  childish  whimper  of  terror.]  Oh, 
Stephen,  I'm  going  to  die !  I'm  going  to  die ! 

MURRAY — [Lifting  his  tortured  face — wildly.] 
No! 

EILEEN — [Her  voice  sinking  to  a  dead  whisper.] 
I'm  going  to  die. 

MURRAY — [Seizing  her  in  his  arms  in  a  passion- 


THE  STRAW  137 

ate  frenzy  and  pressing  his  lips  to  hers.]  No,  Eileen, 
no,  my  love,  no !  What  are  you  saying?  What 
could  have  made  you  think  it?  You — die?  Why, 
of  course,  we're  all  going  to  die — but — Good  God! 
What  damned  nonsense !  You're  getting  well — every 
day.  Everyone — Miss  Gilpin — Stanton — everyone 
told  me  that.  I  swear  before  God,  Eileen,  they  did ! 
You're  still  weak,  that's  all.  They  said — it  won't 
be  long.  You  mustn't  think  that — not  now. 

EILEEN — [Miserably — unconvinced.]  But  why 
did  you  look  at  me — that  way — with  that  awful  look 
in  your  eyes ?  [  While  she  is  speaking  Miss  GIL- 
PIN  enters  the  room  from  the  hallway.  She  appears 
worried,  agitated.  She  hurries  toward  the  porch  but 
stops  inside  the  doorway,  arrested  by  MURRAY'S 
voice.] 

MURRAY — [Takes  EILEEN  by  the  shoulders  and 
forces  her  to  look  into  his  eyes.]  I  wasn't  thinking 

about  you  then No,  Eileen— not  you.  I  didn't 

mean  you — but  me — yes,  me!  I  couldn't  tell  you 
before.  They'd  warned  me — not  to  excite  you — and 
I  knew  that  would — if  you  loved  me. 

EILEEN — [Staring  at  ~hvm  with  frightened  amaze 
ment.]  You  mean  you you're  sick  again? 

MURRAY — [Desperately  striving  to  convince  her.] 
Yes.  I  saw  Stanton.  I  lied  to  you  before — about 
that.  It's  come  back  on  me,  Eileen — ^-you  see  how 
I  look — I've  let  myself  go.  I  don't  know  how  to  live 
without  you,  don't  you  see?  And  you'll — marry  me 
now — without  waiting — and  help  me  to  get  well — • 


138  THE  STRAW 

you  and  I  together — and  not  mind  their  lies — what 
they  say  to  prevent  you?  You'll  do  that,  Eileen? 

EILEEN — I'll  do  anything  for  you And  I'd 

be  so  happy [She  breaks  down.]  But,  Stephen, 

I'm  so  afraid.  I'm  all  mixed  up.  Oh,  Stephen,  I 
don't  know  what  to  believe ! 

Miss  GILPIN — [Who  has  been  listening  thunder 
struck  to  MURRAY'S  wild  pleading,  at  last  summons 
up  the  determination  to  interfere — steps  out  on  the 
porch — in  a  tone  of  severe  remonstrance.]  Mr. 
Murray ! 

MURRAY — [Starts  to  his  feet  with  wild,  bewildered 

eyes — confusedly.]  Oh — you [Miss  GILPIN 

cannot  restrain  an  exclamation  of  dismay  as  she  sees 
his  face  wrung  by  despair.  EILEEN  turns  her  head 
away  with  a  little  cry  as  if  she  would  hide  her  face 
in  the  bedclothes.  A  sudden  fierce  resolution  lights 
up  MURRAY'S  countenance — hoarsely.]  You're  just 
in  the  nick  of  time,  Miss  Gilpin !  Eileen !  Listen ! 
You'll  believe  Miss  Gilpin,  won't  you?  She  knows 
all  about  it.  [EILEEN  turns  her  eyes  questioningly 
on  the  bewildered  nurse.] 

Miss  GILPIN — What ? 

MURRAY — [Determinedly.]  Miss  Gilpin,  Doctor 
Stanton  has  spoken  to  you  since  he  examined  me. 
He  must  have  told  you  the  truth  about  me.  Eileen 
doesn't  believe  me — when  I  tell  her  I've  got  T.  B. 
again.  She  thinks — I  don't  know  what.  I  know 
you're  not  supposed  to,  but  can't  you  make  an  ex- 


THE  STRAW  139 

ception — in  this  case?  Can't  you  tell  Eileen  the 
truth? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Stunned  by  being  thus  defiantly 
confronted — stammeringly.]  Mr.  Murray!  I — I — 
how  can  you  ask 

MURRAY — [Quickly. ]  Eileen  has  a  right  to  know. 
She  loves  me — and  I — I — love  her!  [He  holds  her 
eyes  and  speaks  with  a  passion  of  sincerity  that  com 
pels  belief. ]  I  love  her,  do  you  hear? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Falteringly.]  You — love — Eileen? 

MURRAY — Yes!  I  do!  [Entreatingly. ]  So — 
tell  her — won't  you? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Swallowing  hard,  her  eyes  full  of 
pity  and  sorrow  fixed  on  EILEEN.]  Yes — Eileen — it's 
true.  [She  turns  away  slowly  toward  the  door.] 

EILEEN — [With  a  little  cry  of  alarmed  concern, 
stretches  out  her  hands  to  MURRAY  protectingly.~\ 
Poor  Stephen — dear!  [He  grasps  her  hands  and 
kisses  them.] 

Miss  GILPIN — [In  a  low  voice.]  Mr.  Murray. 
May  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment? 

MURRAY — [With  a  look  of  questioning  defiance  at 
her.]  Certainly. 

Miss  GILPIN — [Turns  to  EILEEN  with  a  forced 
smile.]  I  won't  steal  him  away  for  more  than  a 
moment,  Eileen.  [EILEEN  smiles  happily.] 

MURRAY — [Follows  Miss  GILPIN  into  the  room. 
She  leads  him  to  the  far  end  of  the  room  near  the 
door  to  the  hall,  after  shutting  the  porch  door  care 
fully  behind  him.  He  looks  at  her  defiantly.]  Well? 


140  THE  STRAW 

Miss  GILPIN — [In  low  agitated  tones.]  What  has 
happened?  What  is  the  meaning — I  feel  as  if  I  may 
have  done  a  great  wrong  to  myself — to  you — to  her 
— by  that  lie.  And  yet — something  impelled  me. 

MURRAY — [Moved.]  Don't  regret  it,  Miss  Gil- 
pin  !  It  has  saved  her — us.  Oh,  how  can  I  explain 
what  happened  ?  I  suddenly  saw — how  beautiful  and 
sweet  and  good  she  is — how  I  couldn't  bear  the 

thought  of  life  without  her — her  love That's 

all.  [Determinedly.]  She  must  marry  me  at  once 
and  I  will  take  her  away — the  far  West — any 
place  Stanton  thinks  can  help.  And  she  can  take 
care  of  me — as  she  thinks — and  I  know  she  will  grow 
well  as  I  seem  to  grow  well.  Oh  Miss  Gilpin,  don't 
you  see?  No  half  and  half  measures — no  promises 
— no  conditional  engagements — can  help  us — help 
her.  We  love  too  muchl  {Fiercely  as  if  defying 
her.]  But  we'll  win  together.  We  can!  We  must! 
There  are  things  your  doctors  cannot  value — cannot 
know  the  strength  of!  [Exultantly.]  You'll  see! 
I'll  make  Eileen  get  well,  I  tell  you !  Happiness  will 

cure!  Love  is  stronger  than [He  suddenly 

breaks  down  before  the  pitying  negation  she  cannot 
keep  from  her  eyes.  He  sinks  on  a  chair,  shoulders 
bowed,  face  hidden  in  his  hands,  with  a  groan  of 
'despair.]  Oh,  why  did  you  give  me  a  hopeless  hope? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Putting  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
— with  tender  compassion — sadly.]  Isn't  everything 
we  know — just  that — when  you  think  of  it?  [Her 
face  lighting  up  with  a  consoling  revelation.]  But 


THE  STRAW 

there  must  be  something  back  of  it — some  promise  of 
fulfillment, — somehow — somewhere — in  the  spirit  of 
hope  itself. 

MURRAY — [Dully.]  Yes — but  what  do  words 
mean  to  me  now?  [Then  suddenly  starting  to  his 
•feet  and  flinging  off  her  hand  with  disdainful 
strength — violently  and  almost  insultingly,]  What 
damned  rot!  I  tell  you  we'll  win!  We  must!  Oh, 
I'm  a  fool  to  waste  words  on  you!  What  can  you 
know?  Love  isn't  in  the  materia  medica.  Your 
predictions — all  the  verdicts  of  all  the  doctors — 
what  do  they  matter  to  me?  This  is — beyond  you! 
And  we'll  win  in  spite  of  you !  [Scornfully.]  How 
dare  you  use  the  word  hopeless — as  if  it  were  the 
last !  Come  now,  confess,  damn  it !  There's  always 
hope,  isn't  there?  What  do  you  know?  Can  you 
say  you  know  anything? 

Miss  GILPIN — [Taken  aback  by  his  violence  for  a 
moment,  finally  bursts  into  a  laugh  of  help 
lessness  which  is  close  to  tears.]  I?  I  know  nothing 
— absolutely  nothing!  God  bless  you  both!  [She 
raises  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  hurries  out 
to  the  hallway  without  turning  her  head.  MURRAY 
stands  looking  after  her  for  a  moment;  then  strides 
out  to  the  porch] 

EILEEN — [Turning  and  greeting  him  with  a  shy 
smile  of  happiness  as  he  comes  and  kneels  by  her 
bedside]  Stephen!  [He  kisses  her.  She  strokes 
his  hair  and  continues  in  a  tone  of  motherly,  self- 
f  or  get  ting  solicitude]  I'll  have  to  look  out  for  you, 


THE  STRAW 

Stephen,  won't  I  ?  From  now  on  ?  And  see  that  you 
rest  so  many  hours  a  day — and  drink  your  milk 
when  I  drink  mine — and  go  to  bed  at  nine  sharp 
when  I  do — and  obey  everything  I  tell  you — and 

[The  Curtain  Falls} 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES 


CHARACTERS 

BRUTUS  JONES,  Emperor. 

HENRY  SMITHERS,  A  Cockney  Trader. 

AN  OLD  NATIVE  WOMAN. 

LEM,  A  Native  Chief. 

SOLDIERS.,  Adherents  of  Lem. 

The    Little    Formless    Fears;    Jeff;    The 

Negro    Convicts;    The    Prison    Guard; 

The    Planters;    The    Auctioneer;    The 

Slaves;  The  Congo  Witch-Doctor;  The 

Crocodile  God. 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  on  an 
island  in  the  West  Indies  as  yet  not  self- 
determined  by  White  Marines.  The  form 
of  native  government  is,  for  the  time  be 
ing,  an  Empire. 


I 

I 


SCENE  ONE 

SCENE — The  audience  chamber  m  the  palace  of  the 
Emperor — a  spacious,  high-ceumged  room 
with  "bare,  white-washed  walls.  The  floor  is  of 
white  tiles.  In  the  rear,  to  the  left  of  center, 
a  wide  archway  giving  out  on  a  portico  with 
white  pillars.  The  palace  is  evidently  situated 
on  high  ground  for  beyond  the  portico  nothing 
can  be  seen  but  a  vista  of  distant  hills,  their 
summits  crowned  with  thick  groves  of  palm 
trees.  In  the  right  wall,  center,  a  smaller 
arched  doorway  leading  to  the  living  quarters 
of  the  palace.  The  room  is  bare  of  furniture 
with  the  exception  of  one  huge  chair  made  of 
uncut  wood  which  stands  at  center,  its  back 
to  rear.  This  is  very  apparently  the  Em 
peror 's  throne.  It  is  painted  a  dazzling,  eye- 
smiting  scarlet.  There  is  a  brilliant  orange 
cushion  on  the  seat  and  another  smaller  one  is 
placed  on  the  floor  to  serve  as  a  footstool. 
Strips  of  matting,  dyed  scarlet,  lead  from  the 
foot  of  the  throne  to  the  two  entrances. 

It  is  late  afternoon  but  the  sunlight  still 
blazes  yellowly  beyond  the  portico  and  there  is 
an  oppressive  burden  of  exhausting  heat  m  the 
air. 

147 


148  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

As  the  curt  am  rises,  a  native  negro  womaii 
sneaks  m  cautiously  from  the  entrance  on  the 
right.  She  is  very  old,  dressed  m  cheap  calico, 
bare-footed,  a  red  bandana  handkerchief  cov 
ering  all  but  a  -few  stray  wisps  of  white  hair. 
A  bundle  bound  in  colored  cloth  is  carried  over 
her  shoulder  on  the  end  of  a  stick.  She  hesi 
tates  beside  the  doorway,  peering  back  as  if  m 
extreme  dread  of  being  discovered.  Then  she 
begins  to  glide  noiselessly,  a  step  at  a  time, 
toward  the  doorway  in  the  rear.  At  this  mo 
ment,  SMITHEES  appears  beneath  the  portico. 

SMITHERS  is  a  tall,  stoop-shouldered  man 
about  forty.  His  bald  head,  perched  on  a  long 
neck  with  an  enormous  Adam's  apple,  looks 
like  an  egg.  The  tropics  have  tanned  his  nat 
urally  pasty  face  with  it's  small,  sharp  fea 
tures  to  a  sickly  yellow,  and  native  rum  has 
painted  his  pointed  nose  to  a  startling  red. 
His  little,  washy-blue  eyes  are  red-rimmed  and 
dart  about  him  like  a  ferret's.  His  expression 
is  one  of  unscrupulous  meanness,  cowardly  and 
dangerous.  He  is  dressed  m  a  worn  riding  suit 
of  dirty  white  drill,  putties,  spurs,  and  wears  a 
white  cork  helmet.  A  cartridge  belt  with  an 
automatic  revolver  is  around  his  waist.  He 
carries  a  riding  whip  m  his  hand.  He  sees  the 
woman  and  stops  to  watch  her  suspiciously. 
Then,  making  up  his  mmd,  he  steps  quickly  on 
tiptoe  into  the  room.  The  woman,  looking  back 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  149 

over  Tier  slwulder  continually,  does  not  see  him 
wntil  it  is  too  late.  When  she  does  SMITHERS 
springs  forward  and  grabs  her  firmly  by  the 
shoulder.  She  struggles  to  get  away,  fiercely 
but  silently. 

SMITHERS — [Tightening  his  grasp — roughly.] 
Easy !  None  o'  that,  me  birdie.  You  can't  wriggle 
out  now.  I  got  me  'ooks  on  yer. 

WOMAN — [Seeing  the  uselessness  of  struggling, 
gives  way  to  frantic  terror,  and  sinks  to  the  ground, 
embracing  his  knees  supplicatingly]  No  tell  him ! 
No  tell  him,  Mister! 

SMITHERS — [With  great  curiosity.]  Tell  'im? 
[Then  scornfully.]  Oh,  you  mean  'is  bloomin' 
Majesty.  What's  the  gaime,  any  'ow?  What  are 
you  sneakin'  away  for?  Been  stealin'  a  bit,  I  s'pose. 
[He  taps  her  bundle  with  his  riding  whip  signifi 
cantly] 

WOMAN — [Shaking  her  head  vehemently]  No, 
me  no  steal. 

SMITHERS — Bloody  liar!  But  tell  me  what's  up. 
There's  somethin'  funny  goin'  on.  I  smelled  it  in 
the  air  first  thing  I  got  up  this  mornin'.  You  blacks 
are  up  to  some  devilment.  This  palace  of  'is  is  like 
a  bleedin'  tomb.  Where's  all  the  'ands?  [The 
woman  keeps  sullenly  silent.  SMITHERS  raises  his 
whip  threateningly]  Ow,  yer  won't,  won't  yer? 
I'll  show  yer  what's  what. 

WOMAN — [Coweringly]     I  tell,  Mister      You  no 


150  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

hit.  They  go — all  go.  [She  makes  a  sweeping  ges 
ture  toward  the  hiUs  in  the  distance.] 

SMITHERS — Run  away — to  the  'ills? 

WOMAN — Yes,  Mister.  Him  Emperor — Great 
Father.  [She  touches  her  forehead  to  the  floor  with 
a  quick  mechanical  jerk.]  Him  sleep  after  eat. 
Then  they  go — ah1  go.  Me  old  woman.  Me  left 
only.  Now  me  go  too. 

SMITHERS — [His  astonishment  giving  way  to  an 
immense,  mean  satisfaction.]  Ow!  So  that's  the 
ticket !  Well,  I  know  bloody  well  wot's  in  the  air — 
when  they  runs  orf  to  the  'ills.  The  tom-tom  '11 
be  thumping  out  there  bloomin'  soon.  [With  ex 
treme  vindictiveness.]  And  I'm  bloody  glad  of  it, 
for  one !  Serve  'im  right !  Puttin'  on  airs,  the 
stinkin'  nigger!  'Is  Majesty!  Gawd  blimey!  I 
only  'opes  I'm  there  when  they  takes  'im  out  to 
shoot  'im.  [Suddenly.]  'E's  still  'ere  all  right, 
.ain't  'e? 

WOMAN — Yes.     Him  sleep. 

SMITHERS — 'E's  bound  to  find  out  soon  as  'e 
wakes  up.  'E's  cunnin'  enough  to  know  when  'is 
time's  come.  [He  goes  to  the  doorway  on  right  and 
whistles  shrilly  with  his  fingers  in  his  mouth.  The 
old  woman  springs  to  her  feet  and  runs  out  of  the 
dooncay,  rear.  SMITHERS  goes  after  her,  reaching 
for  his  revolver.]  Stop  or  I'll  shoot!  [Then 
stopping — indifferently.]  Pop  orf  then,  if  yer  like, 
yer  black  cow.  [He  stands  in  the  doorway,  looking 
after  her.] 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  151 

[JONES  enters  from  the  right.  He  is  a 
tally  powerfully-built,  full-blooded  negro  of 
middle  age.  His  features  are  typically 
negroid,  yet  there  is  something  decidedly  dis 
tinctive  about  his  face — an  underlying 
strength  of  will,  a  hardy,  self-reliant  con 
fidence  in  himself  that  inspires  respect.  His 
eyes  are  alive  with  a  keen,  cunning  intelli 
gence.  In  manner  he  is  shrewd,  suspicious, 
evasive.  He  wears  a  light  blue  uniform  coat, 
sprayed  with  brass  buttons,  heavy  gold 
chevrons  on  his  shoulders,  gold  braid  on  the 
collar,  cuffs,  etc.  His  pants  are  bright  red 
with  a  light  blue  stripe  down  the  side.  Pat 
ent  leather  laced  boots  with  brass  spurs,  and 
a  belt  with  a  long-barreled,  pearl-handled 
revolver  m  a  holster  complete  his  make  up. 
Yet  there  is  something  not  altogether 
ridiculous  about  his  grandeur.  He  has  a 
way  of  carrying  it  off .] 

JONES — [Not  seeing  anyone — greatly  irritated 
and  blinking  sleepily — shouts."]  Who  dare  whistle  dat 
way  in  my  palace?  Who  dare  wake  up  de  Em 
peror?  I'll  git  de  hide  frayled  off  some  o'  you  nig 
gers  sho' ! 

SMITHERS — [Showing  himself — in  a  manner  half- 
afraid  amid  half -de font.]  It  was  me  whistled  to 
yer.  [As  JONES  frowns  angrily.]  I  got  news  for 
yer. 

JONES — [Putting  on  his  suavest   manner,  which 


152  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

fails  to  cover  up  his  contempt  for  ike  white  man.] 
Oh,  it's  you,  Mister  Smithers.  [Pie  sits  down  on  his 
throne  with  easy  dignity.']  What  news  you  got  to 
tell  me? 

SMITHERS — [Coming  close  to  enjoy  his  discomfi 
ture.]  Don't  yer  notice  no  thin'  funny  today? 

JONES — [Coldly.]  Funny?  No.  I  ain't  per 
ceived  nothin'  of  de  kind! 

SMITHERS — Then  yer  ain't  so  foxy  as  I  thought 
yer  was.  Where's  all  your  court?  [Sarcastically] 
the  Generals  and  the  Cabinet  Ministers  and  all? 

JONES — [Imperturbably.']  Where  dey  mostly 
runs  to  minute  I  closes  my  eyes — drinkin'  rum  and 
talkin'  big  down  in  de  town.  [Sarcastic ally.]  How 
come  you  don't  know  dat?  Ain't  you  sousin'  with 
'em  most  every  day? 

SMITHERS — [Stung  but  pretending  indifference — • 
with  a  zvink.]     That's  part  of  the  day's  work.    I  got 
ter — ain't  I — in  my  business? 
\JONES — [Contemptuously.']     Yo'  business! 

SMITHERS — [Imprudently  enraged.]  Gawd  blime^y, 
you  was  glad  enough  for  me  ter  take  yer  in  on  it 
when  you  landed  here  first.  You  didn'  'ave  no  'igh 
and  mighty  airs  in  them  days ! 

JONES — [His  hand  going  to  his  revolver  like  a 
flash — menacingly.]  Talk  polite,  white  man !  Talk 
polite,  you  heah  me !  I'm  boss  heah  now,  is  you  fer- 
gettin'?  [The  Cockney  seems  about  to  challenge  this 
last  statement  with  the  facts  but  something  in  the 
other's  eyes  holds  and  cowes  him.] 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  153 

SMITHERS — [In  a  cowardly  whme.]  No  'arm 
meant,  old  top. 

JONES — [Condescendingly.]  I  accepts  yo'  apol 
ogy.  [Lets  his  hand  fall  from  his  revolver.]  No 
use'n  you  rakin'  up  ole  times.  What  I  was  den  is 
one  thing.  What  I  is  now  *s  another.  You  didn't  let 
me  in  on  yo'  crooked  work  out  o'  no  kind  feelin's  dat 
time.  I  done  de  dirty  work  fo'  you — and  most  o'  de 
brain  work,  too,  fo'  dat  matter — and  I  was  wu'th 
money  to  you,  dat's  de  reason. 

SMITHERS — Well,  blimey,  I  give  yer  a  start,  didn't 
I — when  no  one  else  would.  I  wasn't  afraid  to  'ire 
yer  like  the  rest  was — 'count  of  the  story  about  your 
breakin'  jail  back  in  the  States. 

JONES — No,  you  didn't  have  no  s'cuse  to  look 
down  on  me  fo'  dat.  You  been  in  jail  you'self  more'ii 
once. 

SMITHERS — [Furiously.]  It's  a  lie!  [Then  try 
ing  to  pass  it  off  by  an  attempt  at  scorn.]  Gafn! 
Who  told  yer  that  fairy  tale? 

JONES — Dey's  some  tings  I  ain't  got  to  be  tole.  I 
kin  see  'em  in  folk's  eyes.  [Tlien  after  a  pause — • 
meditatively.]  Yes,  you  sho'  give  me  a  start.  And 
it  didn't  take  long  from  dat  time  to  git  dese  fool, 
woods'  niggers  right  where  I  wanted  dem.  [With 
pride.]  From  stowaway  to  Emperor  in  two  years ! 
Dat's  goin'  some ! 

SMITHERS — [With  curiosity.]  And  I  bet  you  got 
yer  pile  o'  money  'id  safe  some  place. 

JONES — [With  satisfaction.]      I  sho'  has!     And 


154  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

it's  in  a  foreign  bank  where  no  pus  son  don't  ever  git 
it  out  but  me  no  matter  what  come.  You  didn't 
s'pose  I  was  holdin'  down  dis  Emperor  job  for  de 
glory  in  it,  did  you?  Sho' !  De  fuss  and  glory  part 
of  it,  dat's  only  to  turn  de  heads  o'  de  low-flung, 
bush  niggers  dat's  here.  Dey  wants  de  big  circus 
show  for  deir  money.  I  gives  it  to  'em  an'  I  gits  de 
money.  [With  a  grm.]  De  long  green,  dat's  me 
every  time!  [Then  rebukingly.]  But  you  ain't  got 
no  kick  agin  me,  Smithers.  I'se  paid  you  back  all 
you  done  for  me  many  times.  Ain't  I  pertected  you 
and  winked  at  all  de  crooked  tradin'  you  been  doin' 
right  out  in  de  broad  day.  Sho'  I  has — and  me 
makin'  laws  to  stop  it  at  de  same  time !  [He 
chuckles.] 

SMITHERS — [Grinning.]  But,  meanin'  no'  'arm, 
you  been  grabbin'  right  and  left  yourself,  ain't  yer? 
Look  at  the  taxes  you've  put  on  'em!  Blimey! 
YouVe  squeezed  'em  dry! 

JONES — [Chuckling.]  No,  dey  ain't  all  dry  yet. 
I'se  still  heah,  ain't  I? 

SMITHERS — [Smiling  at  his  secret  thought.] 
They're  dry  right  now,  you'll  find  out.  [Changing 
the  subject  abruptly.]  And  as  for  me  breakin' 
laws,  you've  broke  'em  all  yerself  just  as  fast  as  yer 
made  'em. 

JONES — Ain't  I  de  Emperor?  De  laws  don't  go 
for  him.  [Judicially.]  You  heah  what  I  tells  you, 
Smithers.  Dere's  little  stealin'  like  you  does,  and 
dere's  big  stealin'  like  I  does.  For  de  little  stealin' 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  155 

dey  gits  you  in  jail  soon  or  late.  For  de  big  stealin' 
dey  makes  you  Emperor  and  puts  you  in  de  I'all  o' 
Fame  when  you  croaks.  [Reminiscently.]  If  dey's 
one  thing  I  learns  in  ten  years  on  de  Pullman  ca's 
listenin'  to  de  white  quality  talk,  it's  dat  same  fact. 
And  when  I  gits  a  chance  to  use  it  I  winds  up  Em 
peror  in  two  years. 

SMITHERS — [Unable  to  repress  the  genuine  ad 
miration  of  the  small  fry  for  the  large :]  Yes,  yer 
turned  the  bleedin'  trick,  all  right.  Blimey,  I  never 
seen  a  bloke  'as  5ad  the  bloomin5  luck  you  'as. 

JONES — [Severely. ~\  Luck?  What  you  mean — 
luck? 

SMITHERS — I  suppose  you'll  say  as  that  swank 
about  the  silver  bullet  ain't  luck — and  that  was  what 
first  got  the  fool  blacks  on  yer  side  the  time  of  the 
revolution,  wasn't  it? 

JONES — [With  a  laugh.]  Oh,  dat  silver  bullet! 
Sho'  was  luck!  But  I  makes  dat  luck,  you  heah?  I 
loads  de  dice !  Yessuh  !  When  dat  murderin'  nigger 
ole  Lem  hired  to  kill  me  takes  aim  ten  feet  away  and 
his  gun  misses  fire  and  I  shoots  him  dead,  what  you 
heah  me  say? 

SMITHERS — You  said  yer'd  got  a  charm  so's  no 
lead  bullet'd  kill  yer.  You  was  so  strong  only  a  sil 
ver  bullet  could  kill  yer,  you  told  'em.  Blimey, 
wasn't  that  swank  for  yer — and  plain,  fat-'eaded 
luck? 

JONES — [Proudly.]  I  got  brains  and  I  uses  'em 
quick.  D?t  ain't  luck. 


156  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

SMITHERS — Yer  know  they  wasn't  'ardly  liable  to 
get  no  silver  bullets.  And  it  was  luck  'e  didn't  'it 
you  that  time. 

JONES — [Laughing.]  And  dere  all  dem  fool,  bush 
niggers  was  kneelin'  down  and  bumpin'  deir  heads  on 
de  ground  like  I  was  a  miracle  out  o'  de  Bible.  Oh 
Lawd,  from  dat  time  on  I  has  dem  all  eatin'  out  of 
my  hand.  I  cracks  de  whip  and  dey  jumps  through. 

SMITHERS — [With  a  sniff.]     Yankee  bluff  done  it. 

JONES — Ain't  a  man's  talkin'  big  what  makes  him 
big — long  as  he  makes  folks  believe  it  ?  Sho',  I  talks 
large  when  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  back  it  up,  but  I 
ain't  talkin'  wild  just  de  same.  I  knows  I  kin  fool 
'em — I  knows  it — and  dat's  backin'  enough  fo'  my 
game.  And  ain't  I  got  to  learn  deir  lingo  and 
teach  some  of  dem  English  befo'  I  kin  talk  to  'em? 
Ain't  dat  wuk?  You  ain't  never  learned  ary  word  er 
it,  Smithers,  in  de  ten  years  you  been  heah,  dough 
you'  knows  it's  money  in  yo'  pocket  tradin'  wid  'em 
if  you  does.  But  you'se  too  shiftless  to  take  de 
trouble. 

SMITHERS — [Flushing.]  Never  mind  about  me. 
What's  this  I've  'eard  about  yer  really  'avin'  a  sil 
ver  bullet  moulded  for  yourself? 

JONES — It's  playin'  out  my  bluff.  I  has  de  silver 
bullet  moulded  and  I  tells  'em  when  de  time  comes  I 
kills  myself  wid  it.  I  tells  'em  dat's  'cause  I'm  de 
on'y  man  in  de  world  big  enuff  to  git  me.  No  use'n 
deir  tryin'.  And  dey  falls  down  and  bumps  deir 
heads.  [He  laughs.]  I  does  dat  so's  I  kin  take  a 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  157 

walk  in  peace  widout  no  jealous  nigger  gunnin'  at 
me  from  behind  de  trees. 

SMITHERS — [Astonished.]  Then  you  'ad  it  made 
- — 'onest  ? 

JONES — Sho'  did.  Heah  she  be.  [He  takes  out 
his  revolver,  breaks  it,  and  takes  the  silver  bullet  out 
of  one  chamber.]  Five  lead  an'  dis  silver  baby  at  de 
last.  Don't  she  shine  pretty?  [He  holds  it  m  his 
hand,  looking  at  it  admiringly,  as  if  strangely  fas 
cinated.] 

SMITHERS — Let  me  see.  [Reaches  out  his  hand 
for  it.] 

JONES — [Harshly.]  Keep  yo'  hands  whar  dey 
b'long,  white  man.  [He  replaces  it  in  the  chamber 
and  puts  the  revolver  back  on  his  hip.] 

SMITHERS — [Snarling.]  Gawd  blimey!  Think 
I'm  a  bleedin'  thief,  you  would. 

JONES — No,  'tain't  dat.  I  knows  you'se  scared  to 
steal  from  me.  On'y  I  ain't  'lowin*  nary  body  to 
touch  dis  baby.  She's  my  rabbit's  foot. 

SMITHERS — [Sneering.]  A  bloomin'  charm,  wot? 
[Venomously.]  Well,  you'll  need  all  the  bloody 
charms  you  'as  before  long,  s'  'elp  me ! 

JONES — [Judicially.]  Oh,  I'se  good  for  six 
months  yit  'fore  dey  gits  sick  o'  my  game.  Den, 
when  I  sees  trouble  comin',  I  makes  my  getaway. 

SMITHERS — Ho!  You  got  it  all  planned,  ain't 
yer? 

JONES — I  ain't  no  fool.  I  knows  dis  Emperor's 
time  is  sho't.  Dat  why  I  make  hay  when  de  sun 


158  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

shine.  Was  you  thinkin'  Fse  aimin'  to  hold  down 
dis  job  for  life?  No,  suh!  What  good  is  gittin' 
money  if  you  stays  back  in  dis  raggedy  country?  I 
wants  action  when  I  spends.  And  when  I  sees  dese 
niggers  gittin'  up  deir  nerve  to  tu'n  me  out,  and  I'se 
got  all  de  money  in  sight,  I  resigns  on  de  spot  and 
beats  it  quick. 

SMITHERS — Where  to? 
JONES — None  o'  yo'  business. 

SMITHERS — Not  back  to  the  bloody  States,  I'll  lay 
my  oath. 

JONES — [Suspiciously.]  Why  don't  I?  [Then 
with  an  easy  laugh,.]  You  mean  'count  of  dat  story 
'bout  me  breakin'  from  jail  back  dere?  Dat's  all 
talk. 

SMITHERS — [Skeptically.]     Ho,  yes  ! 
JONES — [Sharply.]      You   ain't   'sinuatin'   I'se   a 
liar,  is  you? 

SMITHERS — [Hastily.]     No,  Gawd  strike  me !     I 
was   only  thinkin'  o'  the  bloody  lies   you  told  the 
blacks  'ere  about  killin*  white  men  in  the  States. 
JONES — [Angered]     How  come  dey're  lies? 
SMITHERS — You'd   'ave  been  in   jailt  if   you   'ad, 
wouldn't  yer  then?     [IVith  venom]     And  from  what 
I've  'card,  it  ain't  'ealthy  for  a  black  to  kill  a  white 
man  in  the  States.     They  burns   'em  in  oil,  don't 
they? 

JONES — [With  cool  foadliness.]  You  mean  lynch- 
in'  'd  scare  me?  Well,  I  tells  you,  Smithers,  maybe  I 
does  kill  one  white  man  back  dere.  Maybe  I  does. 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  159 

And  maybe  I  kills  another  right  heah  'fore  long  if  he 
don't  look  out. 

SMITHERS — [Trying  to  force  a  laugh.]  I  was  on'y 
spoofm'  yer.  Can't  yer  take  a  joke?  And  you  was 
just  sayin'  you'd  never  been  in  jail. 

JONES — [In  the  same  tone — slightly  boastful.'} 
Maybe  I  goes  to  jail  dere  for  gettin'  in  an  argument 
wid  razors  ovah  a  crap  game.  Maybe  I  gits  twenty 
years  when  dat  colored  man  die.  Maybe  I  gits  in 
'nother  argument  wid  de  prison  guard  was  overseer 
ovah  us  when  we're  wukin'  de  roads.  Maybe  he  hits 
me  wid  a  whip  and  I  splits  his  head  wid  a  shovel  and 
runs  away  and  files  de  chain  off  my  leg  and  gits  away 
safe.  Maybe  I  does  all  dat  an5  maybe  I  don't.  It's 
a  story  I  tells  you  so's  you  knows  Pse  de  kind  of 
man  dat  if  you  evali  repeats  one  words  of  it,  I  ends 
yo'  stealin'  on  dis  yearth  mighty  damn  quick ! 

SMITHERS — [Terrified.]  Think  I'd  peach  on  yer? 
Not  me !  Ain't  I  always  been  yer  friend  ? 

JONES — [Suddenly  relaxmgJ]  Sho'  you  has — 
and  you  better  be. 

SMITHERS — [Recovering  his  composure — and  with 
it  his  malice. ~\  And  just  to  show  yer  I'm  yer  friend, 
I'll  tell  yer  that  bit  o'  news  I  was  goin'  to. 

JONES — Go  ahead !  Shoot  de  piece.  Must  be  bad 
news  from  de  happy  way  you  look. 

SMITHERS — [Warnmgly.~\  Maybe  it's  gettin'  time 
for  you  to  resign — with  that  bloomin'  silver  bullet, 
wot?  [He  finishes  -with  a  mocking  grm.~\ 


160  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

JONES — [Puzzled.]  What's  dat  you  say?  Talk 
plain. 

SMITHERS— Ain't  noticed  any  of  the  guards  or 
servants  about  the  place  today,  I  'aven't. 

JONES — [Carelessly  .]  Dey're  all  out  in  de  garden 
sleepin'  under  de  trees.  When  I  sleeps,  dey  sneaks  a 
sleep,  too,  and  I  pretends  I  never  suspicions  it.  All, 
I  got  to  do  is  to  ring  de  bell  and  dey  come  flyin', 
makin'  a  bluff  dey  was  wukin'  all  de  time. 

SMITHERS — [In  the  same  mocking  tone.]  Ring 
the  bell  now  an'  you'll  bloody  well  see  what  I  means. 

JONES — [Startled  to  alertness,  but  preserving  thd 
same  careless  tone.]  Sho'  I  rings.  [He  reaches  be 
low  the  throne  and  pulls  out  a  big,  common  dinner 
bell  which  is  pamted  the  same  vivid  scarlet  as  the 
throne.  He  rings  this  vigorously — then-  stops  to 
listen.  Then  he  goes  to  both  doors,  rings  again,,  and 
looks  out.] 

SMITHERS — [Watching  him  with  malicious  satis 
faction,  after  a  pause — mockingly]  The  bloody 
ship  is  sinkin'  an'  the  bleedin'  rats  'as  slung  their 
'ooks. 

JONES — [In  a  sudden  fit  of  anger  flings  the  bell 
clattering  into  a  corner.]  Low-flung,  woods'  nig 
gers  !  [Then  catching  Smithers9  eye  on  him,  he  cont- 
trols  himself  and  suddenly  bursts  into  a  low  chuck 
ling  laugh.]  Reckon  I  overplays  my  hand  dis  once! 
A  man  can't  take  de  pot  on  a  bob-tailed  flush  all  de 
time.  Was  I  sayin'  I'd  sit  in  six  months  mo'?  Well, 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  161 

I'se  changed  my  mind  den.  I  cashes  in  and  resigns 
de  job  of  Emperor  right  dis  minute. 

SMITHERS — [With  real  admiration.]  Blimey,  but 
you're  a  cool  bird,  and  no  mistake. 

JONES — No  use'n  fussin'.  When  I  knows  de  game's 
up  I  kisses  it  gooduye  widout  no  long  waits.  Dey've 
all  run  off  to  de  hills,  ain't  dey? 

SMITHERS — Yes — every  bleedin'  man  jack  of  'em. 

JONES — Den  de  revolution  is  at  de  post.  And  de 
Emperor  better  git  his  feet  smokin'  up  de  trail.  [He 
starts  for  the  door  m  rear.] 

SMITHERS — Goin'  out  to  look  for  your  'orse?  Yer 
won't  find  any.  They  steals  the  'orses  first  thing. 
Mine  was  gone  when  I  went  for  'im  this  mornin'. 
That's  wot  first  give  me  a  suspicion  of  wot  was  up. 

JONES — [Alarmed  for  a  second,  scratches  his 
head,  then  philosophically.'}  Well,  den  I  hoofs  it. 
Feet,  do  yo'  duty !  [He  pvlls  out  a  gold  watch  and 
looks  at  it.]  Three-thuty.  Sundown's  at  six-thuty 
or  dereabouts.  [Puts  his  watch  back — with  cool 
confidence.]  I  got  plenty  o'  time  to  make  it  easy. 

SMITHERS — Don't  be  so  bloomin'  sure  of  it.  They'll 
be  after  you  'ot  and  'eavy.  Ole  Lem  is  at  the  bot 
tom  o'  this  business  an'  'e  'ates  you  like  'ell.  'E'd 
rather  do  for  you  than  eat  'is  dinner,  'e  would  1 

JONES — [Scornfully.]  Dat  fool  no-count  nigger! 
Does  you  think  I'se  scared  o'  him?  I  stands  him  on 
his  thick  head  more'n  once  befo'  dis,  and  I  does  it 

again  if  he  come  in  my  way [Fiercely.]  And 

dis  time  I  leave  him  a  dead  nigger  f o'  sho' ! 


162  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

SMITHERS — You'll  'ave  to  cut  through  the  big  for 
est — an'  these  blacks  'ere  can  sniff  and  follow  a  trail 
in  the  dark  like  'ounds.  You'd  'ave  to  'ustle  to  get 
through  that  forest  in  twelve  hours  even  if  you  knew 
all  the  bloomin'  trails  like  a  native. 

JONES — [With  indignant  scoi~n.]  Look-a-heah, 
white  man !  Does  you  think  I'se  a  natural  bo'n  fool? 
Give  me  credit  fo*  havin*  some  sense,  fo'  Lawd's 
sake !  Don't  you  s'pose  I'se  looked  ahead  and  made 
sho'  of  all  de  chances  ?  I'se  gone  out  in  dat  big  for 
est,  pretendin'  to  hunt,  so  many  times  dat  I  knows 
it  high  an'  low  like  a  book.  I  could  go  through  on 
dem  trails  wid  my  eyes  shut.  [With  great  con 
tempt.]  Think  dese  ig'nerent  bush  niggers  dat  ain't 
got  brains  enuff  to  know  deir  own  names  even  can! 
catch  Brutus  Jones?  Huh,  I  s'pects  not!  Not  on 
yo'  life !  Why,  man,  de  white  men  went  after  me  wid 
bloodhounds  where  I  come  from  an'  I  jes'  laughs  at 
'em.  It's  a  shame  to  fool  dese  black  trash  around 
heah,  dey're  so  easy.  You  watch  me,  man'.  I'll 
make  dem  look  sick,  I  will.  I'll  be  'croou  de  plain  to 
de  edge  of  de  forest  by  time  dark  comes.  Once  in  de 
woods  in  de  night,  dey  got  a  swell  chance  o'  findin' 
dis  baby!  Dawn  tomorrow  I'll  be  out  at  de  oder 
side  and  on  de  coast  whar  dat  French  gunboat  is 
stayin'.  She  picks  me  up,  take  me  to  the  Martinique 
when  she  go  dar,  and  dere  I  is  safe  wid  a  mighty  big 
bankroll  in  my  jeans.  It's  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log. 

SMITHEES — [Maliciously.]  But  s'posin'  somethin* 
'appens  wrong  an'  they  do  nab  yer? 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  163 

JONES — [Decisively.]  Bey  don't — dat's  de  an 
swer. 

SMITHERS — But,  just  for  argyment's  sake — 
what'd  you  do? 

JONES — [Frowning. ]  I'se  got  five  lead  bullets  in 
dis  gun  good  enuff  fo'  common  bush  niggers — and 
after  dat  I  got  de  silver  bullet  left  to  cheat  'em  out 
o'  gittin'  me. 

SMITHERS — [Jeeringly]  Ho,  I  was  fergettin' 
that  silver  bullet.  You'll  bump  yourself  orf  in  style, 
won't  yer  ?  Blimey ! 

JONES — [Gloomily.]  You  kin  bet  yo'  whole  roll 
on  one  thing,  white  man.  Dis  baby  plays  out  his 
string  to  de  end  and  when  he  quits,  he  quits  wid  a 
bang  de  way  he  ought.  Silver  bullet  ain't  none  too 
good  for  Mm  when  he  go,  dat's  a  fac' !  [Then  shak 
ing  off  his  nervousness — with  a  confident  laugh.] 
Sho'!  What  is  I  talkin'  about?  Ain't  come  to  dat 
yit  and  I  never  will — not  wid  trash  niggers  like  dese 
yere.  [Boastfully.]  Silver  bullet  bring  me  luck 
anyway.  I  kin  outguess,  outrun,  outfight,  an'  out 
play  de  whole  lot  o'  dem  all  ovah  de  board  any  time 
o'  de  day  er  night!  You  watch  me!  [From  the 
distant  hills  comes  the  faint,  steady  thump  of  a 
tom-tom,  low  and  vibrating.  It  starts  &i  a  .'ate  ex 
actly  corresponding  to  normal  pulse  "beat — 72  to 
the  minute — and  continues  at  a  gradually  accelerat 
ing  rate  from  this  point  uninterruptedly  to  the  very 
end  of  the  play] 

[JONES  starts  at  the  sound.     A  strange  look  of 


164  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

apprehension  creeps  into  his  face  for  a  moment  as  he 
listens*  Then  he  asks,  with  an  attempt  to  regain 
his  most  casual  manner.]  What's  dat  drum  beatin' 
fo'? 

SMITHERS — [With  a  mean  grin]  For  you. 
[That  means  the  bleedin'  ceremony  'as  started.  I've 
'eard  it  before  and  I  knows. 

JONES — Cer'mony?     What  cer'mony? 

SMITHERS — The  blacks  is  'oldin'  a  bloody  meeting 
'avin'  a  war  dance,  gettin'  their  courage  worked 
up  b'fore  they  starts  after  you. 

JONES — Let  dem!     Dey'll  sho'  need  it  I 

SMITHERS — And  they're  there  'oldin'  their 
'eathen  religious  service — makin'  no  end  of  devil 
spells  and  charms  to  'elp  'em  against  your  silver 
bullet.  [He  guffaws  loudly.]  Blimey,  but  they're 
balmy  as  'ell! 

JONES — [A  tmy  bit  awed  and  shaken  m  spite  of 
himself.]  Huh!  Takes  more'n  dat  to  scare  dis 
chicken ! 

SMITHERS — [Scenting  the  other's  feeling — ma 
liciously]  Ternight  when  it's  pitch  black  in  the 
forest,  they'll  'ave  their  pet  devils  and  ghosts 
'oundin'  after  you.  You'll  find  yer  bloody  'air  '11 
be  standin'  on  end  before  termorrow  mornin'. 
[Seriously]  It's  a  bleedin'  queer  place,  that  stink- 
in'  forest,  even  in  daylight.  Yer  don't  know  what 
might  'appen  in  there,  it's  that  rotten  still.  Always 
sends  the  cold  shivers  down  my  back  minute  I  gets 
in  it. 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  165 

JONES — [With  a  contemptuous  sniff. ~\  I  ain't 
no  chicken-liver  like  you  is.  Trees  an'  me,  we'se 
friends,  and  dar's  a  full  moon  comin'  bring  me  light. 
And  let  dem  po'  niggers  make  all  de  fool  spells 
dey'se  a  min'  to.  Does  yo'  s'pect  I'se  silly  enuff  to 
b'lieve  in  ghosts  an'  ha'nts  an'  all  dat  ole  woman's 
talk?  G'long,  white  man!  You  ain't  talkin'  to  me. 
[With  a  chuckle.]  Doesn't  you  know  dey's  got  to 
do  wid  a  man  was  member  in  good  standin'  o'  de 
Baptist  Church?  Sho'  I  was  dat  when  I  was  porter 
on  de  Pullmans,  befo'  I  gits  into  my  little  trouble. 
Let  dem  try  deir  heathen  tricks.  De  Baptist  Church 
done  pertect  me  and  land  dem  all  in  hell.  [Then 
with  more  confident  satisfaction.]  And  I'se  got 
little  silver  bullet  o'  my  own,  don't  f orgit : 

SMITHERS — Ho!  You  'aven't  give  much  *eed  to 
your  Baptist  Church  since  you  been  down  'ere.  I've 
'card  myself  you  'ad  turned  yer  coat  an'  was  takin' 
up  with  their  blarsted  witch-docters,  or  whatever 
the  'ell  yer  calls  the  swine. 

JONES — [Vehemently]  I  pretends  to!  Sho'  I 
pretends !  Dat's  part  o'  my  game  from  de  fust.  If 
I  finds  out  dem  niggers  believes  dat  black  is  white, 
den  I  yells  it  out  louder  'n  deir  loudest.  It  don't 
git  me  no  thin'  to  do  missionary  work  for  de  Baptist 
Church.  I'se  after  d'e  coin,  an'  I  lays  my  Jesus  on 
de  shelf  for  de  time  bein'.  [Stops  abruptly  to  look 
at  his  watch — alertly]  But  I  ain't  got  de  time 
to  waste  no  more  fool  talk  wid  you.  I'se  gvrine  away 
from  heah  dis  secon'.  [He  reaches  m  under  the 


166  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

throne  and  pulls  out  an  expensive  Panama  Hat  with 
a  bright  multi-colored  band  and  sets  it  jauntily  on 
his  head.]  So  long,  white  man!  [With  a  grin.] 
See  you  in  jail  sometime,  maybe! 

SMITHERS — Not  me,  you  won't.  Well,  I  wouldn't 
be  in  yer  bloody  boots  for  no  bloomin'  money,  but 
'ere's  wishin'  yer  luck  just  the  same. 

JONES — [Contemptuously.]  You're  de  frighten- 
edest  man  evah  I  see !  I  tells  you  I'se  safe's  'f  I  was 
in  New  York  City.  It  takes  dem  niggers  from  now 
to  dark  to  git  up  de  nerve  to  start  somethin'.  By 
dat  time,  I'se  got  a  head  start  dey  never  kotch  up 
wid. 

SMITHERS — [Maliciously.]  Give  my  regards  to 
any  ghosts  yer  meets  up  with. 

JONES — [Grinning.]  If  dat  ghost  got  money, 
I'll  tell  him  never  ha'nt  you  less'n  he  wants  to  lose 
it. 

SMITHERS — [Flattered.]  Garn!  [Then  curi 
ously.]  Ain't  yer  takin'  no  luggage  with  yer? 

JONES — I  travels  light  when  I  wants  to  move  fast. 
And  I  got  tinned  grub  buried  on  de  edge  o'  de  for 
est.  [Boastfully.]  Now  say  dat  I  don't  look 
ahead  an'  use  my  brains  !  [  With  a  wide,  liberal  ges 
ture.]  I  will  all  dat's  left  in  de  palace  to  you — 
and  you  better  grab  all  you  kin  sneak  away  wid 
befo'  dey  gits  here. 

SMITHERS — [Gratefully.]  Righto — and  thanks 
ter  yer.  [As  JONES  walks  toward  the  door  in  rear 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  167 

• — cautioningly.]      Say!  Look  'ere,  you  ain't  goin' 
out  that  way,  are  yer? 

JONES — Does  you  think  I'd  slink  out  de  back 
door  like  a  common  nigger?  I'se  Emperor  yit,  ain't 
I?  And  de  Emperor  Jones  leaves  de  way  he  comes, 
and  dat  black  trash  don't  dare  stop  him — not  yit, 
leastways.  [He  stops  for  a  moment  m  the  door 
way,  listening  to  the  far-off  but  insistent  beat  of 
the  tom-tom.]  Listen  to  dat  roll-call,  will  you? 
Must  be  mighty  big  drum  carry  dat  far.  [Thert 
with  a  laugh .]  Well,  if  dey  ain't  no  whole  brass 
band  to  see  me  off,  I  sho'  got  de  drum  part  of  it. 
So  long,  white  man.  [He  puts  his  hands  m  his  poc 
kets  and  'with  studied  carelessness,  whistling  a  tune, 
he  saunters  out  of  the  doorway  and  off  to  the  left.] 

SMITHERS — [Looks  after  him  with  a  puzzled  ad 
miration.]  'E's  got  'is  bloomin'  nerve  with  'im, 
s'elp  me!  [Then  angrily.]  Ho — the  bleedin'  nig 
ger — puttin'  an  'is  bloody  airs !  I  'opes  they  nabs 
'im  an'  gives  'im  what's  what!  [Then  putting  busi 
ness  before  the  pleasure  of  this  thought,  looking 
around  him  with  cupidity.]  A  bloke  ought  to  find 
a  'ole  lot  in  this  palace  that'd  go  for  a  bit  of  cash. 
Let's  take  a  look,  'Arry,  me  lad.  [He  starts  for 
the  doorway  on  right  as 

[The  Curtain  Falls.] 


SCENE  TWO:  NIGHTFALL 

SCENE — The  end  of  the  plain  where  the  Great  For 
est  begins.  The  foreground  is  sandy,  level 
ground  dotted  by  a  few  stones  and  clumps  of 
stunted  bushes  cowering  close  against  the  earth 
to  escape  the  buffeting  of  the  trade  wind.  In 
the  rear  the  forest  is  a  wall  of  darkness  di 
viding  the  world.  Only  when  the  eye  becomes 
accustomed  to  the  gloom  can  the  outlines  of 
separate  trunks  of  the  nearest  trees  be  made 
out,  enormous  pillars  of  deeper  blackness.  A 
somber  monotone  of  wind  lost  in  the  leaves 
moans  in  the  air.  Yet  this  sound  serves  but  to 
intensify  the  impression  of  the  forest's  relent- 
less  immobility,  to  form  a  background  throwing 
into  relief  its  brooding,  implacable  silence. 

[JONES  enters  from  the  left,  walking  rapidly. 
He  stops  as  he  nears  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
looks  around  him  quickly,  peering  into  the  dark 
as  if  searching  for  some  familiar  landmark. 
Then,  apparently  satisfied  that  he  is  where  he 
ought  to  be,  he  throws  himself  on  the  grou/nd, 
dog-tired.] 

Well,  heah  I  is.     In  de  nick  o>  time,  too!     Little 
mo'  an'  it'd  be  blacker'n   de  ace   of   spades  heah- 

168 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  169 

abouts.  [He  pulls  a  bandana  handkerchief  from  his 
hip  pocket  and  mops  off  his  perspiring  'face.']  Sho' ! 
Gimme  air!  I'se  tuckered  out  sho'  'nuff.  Dat  soft 
Emperor  job  ain't  no  trainin'  for'  a  long  hike  ovah 
dat  plain  in  de  brilin*  sun.  [Then  with  a  chuckle.] 
Cheah  up,  nigger,  de  worst  is  yet  to  come.  [He 
lifts  his  head  and  stares  at  the  forest.  His  chuckle 
peters  out  abruptly.  In  a  tone  of  awe.]  My  good 
ness,  look  at  dem  woods,  will  you?  Dat  no-count 
Smithers  said  dey'd  be  black  an'  he  sho'  called  de 
turn.  [Turning  away  from  them  quickly  and  looking 
down  at  his  feet,  he  snatches  at  a  chance  to  change 
the  subject — solicitously.]  Feet,  you  is  holdin'  up 
yo'  end  fine  an'  I  sutinly  hopes  you  ain't  blisterin' 
none.  It's  time  you  git  a  rest.  [He  takes  off  his 
shoes,  his  eyes  studiously  avoiding  the  forest.  He 
feels  of  the  soles  of  his  feet  gingerly.]  You  is  still 
in  de  pink — on'y  a  little  mite  feverish.  Cool  yo'- 
selfs.  Remember  you  done  got  a  long  journey  yit 
befo'  you.  [He  sits  m  a  weary  attitude,  listening  to 
the  rhythmic  beating  of  the  tom-tom.  He  grumbles 
$n  <a  loud  tone  to  cover  up  a  growing  uneasiness.] 
Bush  niggers !  Wonder  dey  wouldn'  git  sick  o'  beat- 
in'  dat  drum.  Sound  louder,  seem  like.  I  wonder  if 
dey's  startin'  after  me?  [He  scrambles  to  his  feet, 
looking  back  across  the  plain.]  Couldn't  see  dem 
now,  nohow,  if  dey  was  hundred  feet  away.  [Then 
sliaking  himself  like  a  wet  dog  to  get  rid  of  these 
depressing  thoughts.]  Sho',  dey's  miles  an'  miles 
behind.  What  you  gittin'  fidgetty  about  ?  [But  he 


170  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

sits  down  and  begins  to  lace  up  his  shoes  m  great 
haste,  all  the  time  muttering  reassuringly.]  You 
know  what?  Yo'  belly  is  empty,  dat's  what's  de 
matter  wid  you.  Come  time  to  eat !  Wid  nothin' 
but  wind  on  yo'  stumach,  o'  course  you  feels  jiggedy. 
Well,  we  eats  right  heah  an'  now  soon's  I  gits  dese 
pesky  shoes  laced  up.  [He  finishes  lacing  up  his 
shoes]  Dere!  Now  le's  see!  [Gets  on  his  hands 
and  knees  and  searches  the  ground  around  him  with 
his  eyes]  White  stone,  white  stone,  where  is  you? 
[He  sees  the  first  white  stone  and  crawls  to  it — • 
with  satisfaction.]  Heah  you  is!  I  knowed  dis  was 
de  right  place.  Box  of  grub,  come  to  me.  [He 
turns  over  the  stone  and  -feels  in  under  it — in  a  tone 
of  dismay]  Ain't  heah!  Gorry,  is  I  in  de  right 
place  or  isn't  I?  Dere's  'nother  stone.  Guess  dat's 
it.  [He  scrambles  to  the  next  stone  and  turns  it 
over]  Ain't  heah,  neither!  Grub,  whar  is  you? 
Ain't  heah.  Gorry,  has  I  got  to  go  hungry  into 
dem  woods — all  de  nigLt?  [While  he  is  talking  he 
scrambles  -from  one  stone  to  another,  turning  them 
over  m  frantic  haste.  Finally,  he  jumps  to  his  feet 
exciteuly]  Is  I  lost  de  place?  Must  have!  But 
how  dat  happen  when  I  was  followin'  de  trail  across 
de  plain  in  broad  daylight?  [Almost  plaintively.] 
I'se  hungry,  I  is !  I  gotta  git  my  feed.  Whar's 
my  strength  gonna  come  from  if  I  doesn't?  Gorry, 
I  gotta  find  dat  grub  high  an'  low  somehow!  Why 
it  come  dark  so  quick  like  dat?  Can't  see  nothin'. 
[He  scratches  a  match  on  his  trousers  and  peers 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  171 

about  him.  The  rate  of  the  beat  of  the  far-off  io.n- 
tom  increases  perceptibly  as  he  does  so.  He  mut 
ters  in  a  bewildered  voice.]  How  come  all  dese 
white  stones  come  heah  when  I  only  remembers  one? 
[Suddenly,  with  a  frightened  gasp,  he  flings  the 
match  on  the  ground  and  stamps  on  it.]  Nigger, 
is  you  gone  crazy  mad?  Is  you  lightin'  matches 
to  show  dem  whar  you  is?  Fo'  Lawd's  sake,  use 
yo?  haid.  Gorry,  Fse  got  to  be  careful!  [He 
stares  at  the  plain  behind  him  apprehensively, 
his  hand  on  his  revolver.]  But  how  come  all  dese 
white  stones?  And  whar's  dat  tin  box  o'  grub  I  hid 
all  wrapped  up  in  oil  cloth? 

[While  his  back  is  turned,  the  LITTLE  FORMLESS 
FEARS  creep  out  from  the  deeper  blackness  of  the 
forest.  They  are  black,  shapeless,  only  their  glit 
tering  little  eyes  can  be  seen.  If  they  have  any  de- 
scribable  form  at  all  it  is  that  of  a  grubworm  about 
the  size  of  a  creeping  child.  They  move  noiselessly, 
but  with  deliberate,  painful  effort,  striving  to  raise 
themselves  on  end,  failing  and  sinking  prone  again. 
JONES  turn$  about  to  face  the  forest.  He  stares  up 
at  the  tops  of  the  trees,  seeking  vainly  to  discover 
his  whereabouts  by  their  conformation.] 

Can't  tell  nothin'  from  dem  trees !  Gorry,  nothin' 
'round  heah  look  like  I  evah  seed  it  befo'.  I'se  done 
lost  de  place  sho'  'nuff !  [With  mournful  forebod 
ing.]  It's  mighty  queer!  It's  mighty  queer! 
[With  sudden  forced  defiance — in  an  angry  tone.] 
Woods,  is  you  tryin'  to  put  somethin'  ovah  on  me? 


172  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

[From  the  formless  creatures  on  the  ground  m 
front  of  him  comes  a  tiny  gale  of  low  mocking 
laughter  like  a  rustling  of  leaves.  They  squirm  up 
ward  toward  him  in  twisted  attitudes.  JONES  looks 
down,  leaps  backward  with  a  yell  of  terror,  yanking 
out  his  revolver  as  he  does  so — in  a  quavering 
voice.]  What's  dat?  Who's  dar?  What  is  you? 
Git  away  from  me  bef o'  I  shoots  you  up !  You 
don't? 

[He  fires.  There  is  a  flash,  a  loud  report,  then 
silence  broken  only  by  the  far-off,  quickened  throb 
of  the  tom-tom.  The  formless  creatures  have  scur 
ried  back  mto  the  forest.  JONES  remains  fixed  in 
his  position,  listening  intently.  The  sound  of  the 
shot,  the  reassuring  feel  of  the  revolver  m  his  hand, 
have  somewhat  restored  his  shaken  nerve.  He  ad 
dresses  himself  with  renewed  confidence.'] 

Dey're  gone.  Dat  shot  fix  'em.  Dey  was  only 
little  animals — little  wild  pigs,  I  reckon.  Dey've 
maybe  rooted  out  yo'  grub  an'  eat  it.  Sho',  you 
fool  nigger,  what  you  think  dey  is — ha'nts?  [Ex 
citedly.]  Gorry,  you  give  de  game  away  when 
you  fire  dat  shot.  Dem  niggers  heah  dat  fo'  su'tin ! 
Time  you  beat  it  in  de  woods  widout  no  long  waits. 
[He  starts  for  the  forest — hesitates  before  the 
plunge — then  urging  himself  in  with  manful  resolu 
tion]  Git  in,  nigger!  What  you  skeered  at?  Ain't 
nothin'  dere  but  de  trees!  Git  in!  [He  plunges 
boldly  mto  the  forest] 


SCENE  THREE 

SCENE — Nine  o'clock.  In  tJie  forest.  The  moon 
has  just  risen.  Its  beams,  drifting  through  the 
canopy  of  leaves,  make  a  barely  perceptible, 
suffused,  eerie  glow.  A  den*se  low  wall  of  under 
brush  and  creepers  is  m  the  nearer  foreground, 
fencing  in  a  small  triangular  clearing.  Be 
yond  this  is  the  massed  blackness  of  the  forest 
like  an  encompassing  barrier.  A  path  is  dimly 
discerned  leading  down  to  the  clearing  from 
left,  rear,  and  winding  away  from  it  again 
toward  the  right.  As  the  scene  opens  nothing 
can  be  distinctly  made  out.  Except  for  the 
beating  of  the  tom-tom,  which  is  a  trifle  louder 
and  quicker  than  in  the  previous  scene,  there 
is  silence,  broken  every  few  seconds  by  a  queer, 
clicking  sound.  'Then  gradually  the  figure  of 
the  negro,  JEFF,  can  be  discerned  crouching  on 
his  haunches  at  the  rear  of  the  triangle.  He 
is  middle-aged,  thin,  brown  m  color,  is  dressed 
in  a  Pullman  porter's  uniform,  cap,  etc.  He 
,  is  throwing  a  pair  of  dice  on  the  ground  before 
him,  picking  them  up,  shaking  them,  casting 
them  out  with  the  regular,  rigid,  mechanical 
movements  of  an  automaton.  The  heavy,  plod- 
173 


174  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

ding  footsteps  of  someone  approaching  along 
the  trail  from  the  left  are  heard  and  JONES' 
voice,  pitched  m  a  slightly  higher  key  and 
strained  in  a  cheermg  effort  to  overcome  its 
own  tremors. 

De  moon's  rizen.  Does  you  heah  dat,  nigger?  You 
gits  more  light  from  dis  out.  No  mo'  buttin'  yo' 
fool  head  agin'  de  trunks  an'  scratchin'  de  hide  off 
yo'  legs  in  de  bushes.  Now  you  sees  whar  yo'se 
gwine.  So  cheer  up !  From  now  on  you  has  a  snap. 
[He  steps  just  to  the  rear  of  the  triangular  clear 
ing  and  mops  off  his  face  on  his  sleeve.  He  has  lost 
his  Panama  hat.  His  face  is  scratched,  his  bril 
liant  uniform  shows  several  large  rents.~\  What 
time's  it  gittin'  to  be,  I' wonder?  I  dassent  light  no 
match  to  find  out.  Phoo*.  It's  wa'm  an'  dats  a  f  ac' ! 
[Wearily.'}  How  long  I  been  makin'  track*  in 
dese  woods?  Must  be  hours  an'  hours.  Seems  like 
fo'evah!  Yit  can't  be,  when  de  moon's  jes'  riz.  Dis 
am  a  long  night  fo'  yo',  yo'  Majesty!  [With  a 
mournful  chuckle.~\  Majesty!  Der  ain't  much 
majesty  'bout  dis  baby  now.  [With  attempted 
cheerfulness.}  Never  min'.  It's  all  part  o'  de  game. 
Dis  night  come  to  an  end  like  everything  else.  And 
when  you  gits  dar  safe  and  has  dat  bankroll  in  yo' 
hands  you  laughs  at  all  dis.  [He  starts  to  whistle 
but  checks  himself  abruptly.}  What  yo'  whistlin' 
for,  you  po'  dope!  Want  all  de  worl'  to  heah  you? 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  175 

[He  stops  talking  to  listen.]  Heah  dat  ole  drum! 
Sho'  gits  nearer  from  de  sound.  Dey're  packin'  it 
along  wid  *em.  Time  fo'  me  to  move.  [He  takes 
a  step  forward,  then  stops — worriedly.'}  What's 
dat  odder  queer  clicketty  sound  I  heah?  Dere  it  is! 
Sound  close!  Sound  like — sound  like — Fo'  God 
sake,  sound  like  some  nigger  was  shootin'  crap ! 
[Fright en&Hy.  ]  I  better  beat  it  quick  when  I  gits 
dem  notions.  [He  walks  quickly  mto  the  clear  space 
— then  stands  transfixed  as  he  sees  JEFF — in  a  ter 
rified  gasp.]  Who  dar?  Who  dat?  Is  dat  you, 
Jeff?  [Starting  toward  the  other,  forgetful  for  a 
moment  of  his  surroundings  and  really  believing  it  is 
a  living  man  that  he  sees — m  a  tone  of  happy  re 
lief.]  Jeff!  I'se  sho'  mighty  glad  to  see  you!  Dey 
toP  me  you  done  died  from  dat  razor  cut  I  gives 
you.  [Stopping  suddenly,  bewilderedly .]  But  how 
you  come  to  be  heah,  nigger?  [He  stares  fascinat 
edly  at  the  other  who  continues  his  mechanical  play 
with  the  dice.  JONES'  eyes  begin  to  roll  wildly.  He 
stutters.]  Ain't  you  gwine — look  up — can't  you 
speak  to  me?  Is  you — is  you — a  ha'nt?  [He  jerks 
out  his  revolver  in  a  frenzy  of  terrified  rage.]  Nig 
ger,  I  kills  you  dead  once.  Has  I  got  to  kill  you 
agin  ?  You  take  it  den.  [He  fires.  When  the  smoke 
clears  away  JEFF  has  disappeared.  JONES  stands 
trembling — then  with  a  cert  am  reassurance.]  He's 
gone,  anyway.  Ha'nt  or  no  ha'nt,  dat  shot  fix  him. 
[The  beat  of  the  far-off  tom-tom  is  perceptibly 
louder  and  more  rapid.  JONES  becomes  conscious 


176  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

of  it — with  a  start,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder. ] 
Dey's  gittin'  near!  Dey'se  comin'  fast!  And  heah 
I  is  shootin'  shots  to  let  'em  know  jes'  whar  I  is. 
Oh,  Gorry,  Fse  got  to  run.  [Forgetting  the  path 
he  pluxnges  wildly  mto  the  umderbrush  in  the  rear  and 
disappears  vn  the  shadow.] 


SCENE  FOUR 

SCENE — Eleven  o'clock.  In  the  forest.  A  wide 
dirt  road  runs  diagonally  from  right,  front,  to 
left,  rear.  Rising  sheer  on  both  sides  the  for 
est  wall-s  it  m.  The  moon  is  now  up.  Under 
its  light  the  road  glimmers  ghastly  and  unreal. 
It  is  as  if  the  forest  had  stood  aside  momen 
tarily  to  let  the  road  pass  through  and  ac 
complish  its  veiled  purpose.  This  done,  the 
forest  will  fold  in  upon  itself  agam  and  the 
road  will  be  no  more.  JONES  stumbles  in  from 
the  forest  on  the  right.  His  uniform  is  ragged 
and  torn.  He  looks  about  him  with  numbed 
surprise  when  he  sees  the  road,  his  eyes  blink 
ing  m  the  bright  moonlight.  Iff  flops  down 
exhaust edly  and  pants  heavily  for  a  while. 
Then  with  sudden  anger. 

I'm  meltin'  wid  heat!  Runnin'  an'  runnin'  an' 
runnin'!  Damn  dis  heah  coat!  Like  a  strait  jacket! 
[He  tears  off  his  coat  and  flings  it  away  from 
Inm-j  revealing  himself  stripped  to  the  waist.]  Dere! 
Dat's  better!  Now  I  kin  breathe!  [Looking  down 
at  his  feet,  the  spurs  catch  his  eyeJ\  And  to  hell 
wid  dese  high-fangled  spurs.  Dey're  what's  been 

177 


178  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

a-trippin'  me  up  an'  breakin'  my  neck.  [He  un 
straps  them  and  flings  them  away  disgustedly.] 
Dere!  I  gits  rid  o'  dem  frippety  Emperor  trap- 
pin's  an'  I  travels  lighter.  Lawd !  I'se  tired ! 
[After  a  pause,  listening  to  the  msistent  beat  of 
the  tom-tom  m  the  distance.]  I  must  'a  put  some 
distance  between  myself  an'  dem — mnnin'  like  dat 
— and  yit — dat  damn  drum  sound  jes'  de  same — 
nearer,  even.  Well,  I  guess  I  a'most  holds  my  lead 
anyhow.  Dey  won't  never  catch  up.  [With  a  sigh.] 
If  on'y  my  fool  legs  stands  up.  Oh,  I'se  sorry  I 
evah  went  in  for  dis.  Dat  Emperor  job  is  sho'  hard 
to  shake.  [He  looks  around  him  suspiciously.] 
How'd  dis  road  evah  git  heah?  Good  level  road, 
too.  I  never  remembers  seein'  it  befo'.  [Shaking 
his  head  apprehensively.]  Dese  woods  is  sho'  full 
o'  de  queerest  things  at  night.  [  With  a  sudden  ter 
ror.]  Lawd  God,  don't  let  me  see  no  more  o'  dem 
ha'nts!  Dey  gits  my  goat!  [Then  trymg  to  talk 
himself  into  confidence.]  Ha'nts !  You  fool  nigger, 
dey  ain't  no  such  things !  Don't  de  Baptist  parson 
tell  you  dat  many  time?  Is  you  civilized,  or  is  you 
like  dese  ign'rent  black  niggers  heah?  Sho'!  Dat 
was  all  in  yo'  own  head.  Wasn't  no  thin'  dere.  Wasn't 
no  Jeff!  Know  what?  You  jus'  get  seein'  dem 
things  'cause  yo'  belly's  empty  and  you's  sick  wid 
hunger  inside.  Hunger  'fects  yo'  head  and  yo'  eyes. 
Any  fool  know  dat.  [Then  pleadmg  fervently.] 
But  bless  God,  I  don't  come  across  no  more  o'  dem, 
whatever  dey  is !  [Then  cautiously.]  Rest!  Don't 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  179 

talk !  Rest !  You  needs  it.  Den  you  gits  on  yo' 
way  again.  [Looking  at  the  moon.]  Night's  half 
gone  a'most.  You  hits  de  coast  in  de  mawning! 
Den  you'se  all  safe. 

[From  tlie  right  forward  a  small  gang  of 
negroes  enter.  They  are  dressed  in  striped  con 
vict  suits,  their  heads  are  sJiaven,  one  leg  drags 
limpingly,  shackled  to  a  heavy  ball  and  chain. 
Some  carry  picks,  the  others  shovels.  They  are  fol 
lowed  by  a  white  man  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a 
prison  guard.  A  Winchester  rifle  is  slwng  across 
his  shoulders  and  he  carries  a  heavy  whip.  At  a 
signal  from  the  GUARD  they  stop  on  the  road  oppo 
site  where  JONES  is  sitting.  JONES,  who  has  been 
staring  up  at  the  sky,  unmindful  of  their  noiseless 
approach,  suddenly  looks  down  and  sees  them.  His 
eyes  pop  out,  he  tries  to  get  to  his  feet  and  -fly,  but 
sinks  back,  too  numbed  by  fright  to  move.  His  voice 
catches  m  a  chokmg  prayer. ~\ 

Lawd  Jesus ! 

[The  PRISON  GUARD  cracks  his  whip — noiselessly 
— and  at  that  signal  all  the  convicts  start  to  work 
on  the  road.  They  swing  their  picks,  they  shovel, 
but  not  a  sound  comes  from  their  labor.  Their 
movements,  like  those  of  JEFF  in  the  preceding 
scene,  are  those  of  automatons, — rigid,  slow,  and 
mechanical.  The  PRISON  GUARD  points  sternly  at 
JONES  with  his  whip,  motions  him  to  take  his  place 
among  the  other  shovellers.  JONES  gets  to  his  feet 
m  a  hypnotized  stupor.  He  mumbles  subserviently.] 


180  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

Yes,  suh!     Yes,  suh!     I'se  comin'. 

[As  he  shuffles,  draggmg  one  foot,  over  to  his 
place,  he  curses  under  his  breath  with  rage  and 
hatred.] 

God  damn  yo'  soul,  I  gits  "even  wid  you  yit,  some 
time. 

[As  if  there  inhere  a  shovel  in  his  hands  he  goes 
through  weary,  mechanical  gestures  of  digging  up 
dirt,  and  throwing  it  to  the  roadside.  Suddenly  the 
GUARD  approaches  him  angrily,  threateningly.  He 
raises  his  whip  and  lashes  JONES  viciously  across  the 
shoulders  with  it.  JONES  winces  with  pain  and 
cowers  abjectly.  The  GUARD  turns  his  back  on  him 
and  walks  away  contemptuously.  Instantly  JONES 
straightens  up.  With  arms  upraised  as  if  his  shovel 
were  a  club  in  his  hands  he  springs  murderously  at 
the  unsuspecting  GUARD.  In  the  act  of  crashing 
down  his  shovel  on  the  white  man's  skull,  JONES  sud- 
denly  becomes  aware  that  his  hands  are  empty.  He 
cries  despairingly.'] 

Whar's  my  shovel?  Gimme  my  shovel  'till  I  splits 
his  damn  head!  [Appealing  to  his  fellow  convicts.] 
Gimme  a  shovel,  one  o*  you,  f o*  God's  sake ! 

[They  stand  fixed  in  motionless  attitudes,  their 
eyes  on  the  ground.  The  GUARD  seems  to  wait  ex 
pectantly,  his  back  turned  to  the  attacker.  JONES 
bellows  with  baffled,  terrified  rage,  tugging  franti 
cally  at  his  revolver.'] 

I  kills  you,  you  white  debil,  if  it's  de  last  thing  I 
evah  does !  Ghost  or  debil,  I  kill  you  agin  f 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  181 

[He  frees  the  revolver  and  -fires  point  blank  at 
the  GUARD'S  back.  Instantly  the  walls  of  the  forest 
close  m  from  both  sides,  the  road  and  the  figures 
of  the  convict  gang  are  blotted  out  m  an  enshroud 
ing  darkness.  The  only  sounds  are  a  crashing  wt 
the  underbrush  as  JONES  leaps  away  m  mad  flight 
and  the  throbbing  of  the  tom-tom,  still  -far  distant, 
but  increased  m  volume  of  sound  and  rapidity  of 
beat.] 


SCENE  FIVE 

SCENE — One  o'clock.  A  large  circular  clearing,  en 
closed  by  the  serried  ranks  of  gigantic  trunks 
of  tall  trees  whose  tops  are  lost  to  view. 
In  the  center  is  a  big  dead  stump  worn  by  time 
into  a  curious  resemblance  to  an  auction  block. 
The  moon  floods  the  clearing  with  a  clear  light. 
JONES  forces  his  way  in  through  the  forest  on 
the  left.  He  looks  wildly  about  the  clearing 
with  hunted,  fearful  glances.  His  pants  are 
m  tatters,  his  shoes  cut  and  misshapen,  flap- 
pmg  about  his  feet.  He  slinks  cautiously  to 
the  stump  in  the  center  and  sits  down  in  a 
tense  position,  ready  for  mstant  flight.  Then 
he  holds  his  head  in  his  hands  and  rocks  back 
and  forth,  moaning  to  himself  miserably.'} 

Oh  Lawd,  Lawd !  Oh  Lawd,  Lawd !  [Suddenly 
he  throws  himself  on  his  knees  and  raises  his  clasped 
hands  to  the  sky — m  a  voice  of  agonized  pleading.'} 
Lawd  Jesus,  heah  my  prayer!  I'se  a  po'  sinner, 
a  po'  sinner !  I  knows  I  done  wrong,  I  knows  it ! 
When  I  cotches  Jeff  cheatin'  wid  loaded  dice  my 
anger  overcomes  me  and  I  kills  him  dead!  Lawd, 
I  done  wrong !  When  dat  guard  hits  me  wid  de  whip, 

182 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  183 

my  anger  overcomes  me,  and  I  kills  him  dead.  Lawd, 
I  done  wrong!  And  down  heah  whar  dese  fool  bush 
niggers  raises  me  up  to  the  seat  o'  de  mighty,  I  steals 
all  I  could  grab.  Lawd,  I  done  wrong !  I  knows  it ! 
I'se  sorry!  Forgive  me,  Lawd!  Forgive  dis  po' 
sinner!  [Tlien  beseeching  terrifiedly.]  And  keep 
dem  away,  Lawd!  Keep  dem  away  from  me!  And 
stop  dat  drum  soundin'  in  my  ears !  Dat  begin  to 
sound  ha'nted,  too.  [He  gets  to  his  feet,  evidently 
slightly  reassured  by  his  prayer — with  attempted 
confidence.]  De  Lawd'll  preserve  me  from  dem 
ha'nts  after  dis.  [Sits  down  on  the  stump  again.'} 
I  ain't  skeered  o'  real  men.  Let  dem  come.  But 

dem  odders •     [He  shudders^ — th*n  looks  down  at 

his  feet,  working  his  toes  inside,  the  slwes — with  a 
groan.~\  Oh,  my  po'  feet!  Dem* shoes  ain't  no  use 
no  more  'ceptin'  to  hurt.  I'se  better  off  widout  dem. 
[He  unlaces  them  and  puUs  them  off — holds  the 
wrecks  of  the  shoes  m  his  hands  and  regards  them 
mournfully.]  You  was  real,  A-one  patin'  leather, 
too.  Look  at  you  now.  Emperor,  you'se  gittin* 
mighty  low! 

[He  sighs  dejectedly  and  remains  with  bowed 
shoulders?  staring  down  at  the  shoes  in  his  hands 
as  if  reluctant  to  throw  them  away.  While  his  at 
tention  is  thus  occupied,  a  crowd  of  figures  silently 
enter  the  clearing  -from  all  sides.  All  are  dressed 
in  Southern  costumes  of  the  period  of  the  fifties  of 
the  last  century.  There  are  middle-aged  jnen  who 
are  evidently  well-to-do  planters.  There  is  one 


184  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

spruce,  authoritative  individual — the  AUCTIONEER. 
There  are  a  crowd  of  curious  spectators,  chiefly 
young  belles  and  dandies  who  have  come  to  the 
slave-market  for  diversion.  All  exchange  courtly 
greetings  in  dumb  show  and  chat  silently  together. 
There  is  something  stiff,  rigid,  unreal,  marionettish 
about  their  movements.  They  group  them-selves 
about  the  stump.  Finally  a  batch  of  slaves  are  led 
m  from  the  left  by  am.  attendant — three  men  of 
different  ages,  two  women,  one  with  a  baby  in  her, 
arms,  nursing.  They  are  placed  to  the  left  of  the 
stump,  beside  JONES. 

The  white  planters  look  them  over  appraisingly 
as  if  they  were  cattle,  and  exchange  judgments  on 
each.  The  dandies  point  with  their  fingers  and 
make  witty  remarks.  The  belles  titter  bewitchingly. 
All  this  in  silence  save  for  the  ominous  throb  of 
the  tom-tom.  TJie  AUCTIONEER  holds  up  his  hand, 
talcing  his  place  at  the  stump.  The  groups  strain 
forward  attentively.  He  touches  JONES  on  the 
shoulder  peremptorily,  motioning  for  him  to  stand 
on  the  stump — the  auction  block. 

JONES  looks  up,  sees  tlie  figures  on  all  sides,  looks 
wildly  for  some  opening  to  escape,  sees  none, 
screams  and  leaps  madly  to  the  top  of  the  stump 
to  get  as  far  away  from  them  as  possible.  He 
stands  there,  cowering,  paralyzed  with  horror.  The 
AUCTIONEER  begms  his  silent  spieL  He  points  to 
JONES,  appeals  to  the  planters  to  see  for  themselves. 
Here  is  a  good  field  hand,  sound  m  wind  and  limb 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  185 

as  they  can  see.  Very  strong  still  in  spite  of  his 
being  middle-aged.  Look  at  tliat  back.  Look  at 
those  shoulders.  Look  at  the  muscles  in  Ills  arms 
and  his  sturdy  legs.  Capable  of  any  amount  of 
hard  labor.  Moreover,  of  a  good  disposition,  intel 
ligent  and  tractable.  Will  any  gentleman  start  the 
bidding?  The  PLANTERS  raise  their  fingers,  make 
their  bids.  They  are  apparently  all  eager  to  pos 
sess  JONES.  The  bidding  is  lively,  the  crowd  inter 
ested.  W'hUe  this  has  been  going  on,  JONES  has 
been  seized  by  tJie  courage  of  desperation.  He  dares 
to  look  down  and  around  him.  Over  his  face  abject 
terror  gives  way  to  mystification,  to  gradual  realiza 
tion — stwttermgly.'] 

What  you  all  doin',  white  folks?  What's  all  dis? 
What  you  all  lookin'  at  me  fo'?  What  you  doin' 
wid  me,  anyhow?  [Suddenly  convulsed  with  raging 
hatred  and  fear.]  Is  dis  a  auction?  Is  you  sellin' 
me  like  dey  uster  befo*  de  war?  [Jerking  out  his 
revolver  just  as  the  AUCTIONEER  knocks  him  down 
to  one  of  th-e  planters — glaring  from  him  to  the 
purchaser.]  And  you  sells  me?  And  you  buys  me? 
I  shows  you  I'se  a  free  nigger,  damn  yo'  souls! 
[He  fires  at  the  AUCTIONEER  and  at  the  PLANTER 
with  such  rapidity  that  the  two  shots  are  almost 
simultaneous.  As  if  this  were  a  signal  the  watts 
of  the  forest  fold  in.  Only  blackness  remains  and 
silence  broken  by  JONES  as  he  rushes  off,  crying 
with  fear — and  by  the  quickened,  ever  louder  beat 
of  the  tom-tom.'} 


SCENE  SIX 

SCENE — Three  o'clock.  A  cleared  space  m  the  for 
est.  The  limbs  of  tJie  trees  meet  over  it  form~ 
mg  a  low  ceiling  about  five  feet  from  the 
ground.  The  interlocked  ropes  of  creepers 
reaching  upward  to  entwine  the  tree  trunks 
gives  an  arched  appearance  to  the  sides.  The 
space  thus  enclosed  is  like  the  dark,  noisome 
hold  of  some  ancient  vessel.  The  moonlight 
is  almost  completely  shut  out  and  only  a  vague, 
wan  light  filters  through.  There  is  the.  noise  of 
someone  approaching  from  the  left,  stumbling 
and  crawling  through  the  undergrowth.  JONES' 
voice  is  heard  between  chattering  moans. 

Oh,  Lawd,  what  I  gwine  do  now?  Ain't  got  no 
bullet  left  on'y  de  silver  one.  If  mo*  o'  dem  ha'nts 
come  after  me,  how  I  gwine  skeer  dem  away?  Oh, 
Lawd,  on'y  de  silver  one  left — an'  I  gotta  save  dat 
fo*  luck.  If  I  shoots  dat  one  I'm  a  goner  sho'i 
Lawd,  it's  black  heah!  Whar's  de  moon?  Oh, 
Lawd,  don't  dis  night  evah  come  to  an  end?  [By  the 
sownds,  he  is  feeling  his  way  cautiously  forward.J 
Dere!  Dis  feels  like  a  clear  space.  I  gotta  lie 
down  an'  rest.  I  don't  care  if  dem  niggers  does 
cotch  me.  I  gotta  rest. 

186 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  187 

\He  is  well  forward  new  where  his  figure  can  be 
dimly  made  out.  His  pants  have  been  so  torn  away 
that  what  is  left  of  them  is  no  better  than  a  breech 
cloth.  He  flings  himself  full  length,  face  downward 
on  the  ground,  panting  with  exhaustion.  Gradually 
it  seems  to  grow  lighter  in  the  enclosed  space  and 
two  rows  of  seated  figures  can  be  seen  behind  JONES. 
They  are  sitting  in  crumpled,  despairing  attitudes, 
hunched,  facing  one  another  with  their  backs  touch 
ing  the  forest  walls  as  if  they  were  shackled  to  them. 
All  are  negroes,  naked  save  for  loin  cloths.  At  first 
they  are  silent  and  motionless.  Then  they  begin  to 
sway  slowly  forward  toward  each  and  back  again  in 
unison,  as  if  they  were  laxly  letting  themselves  follow 
'the  long  roll  of  a  ship  at  sea.  At  the  same  time, 
a  low,  melancholy  murmur  rises  among  them,  in 
creasing  gradually  by  rhythmic  degrees  which  seem 
to  be  directed  and  controlled  by  the  throb  of  the 
tom-tom  m  the  distance,  to  a  long,  tremulous  wail 
>  of  despair  that  readies  a  certain  pitch,  unbearably 
acute,  then  falls  by  slow  graduations  of  tone  into 
silence  and  is  taken  up  again.  JONES  starts,  looks 
up,  sees  tlie  figures,  and  throws  himself  down  again 
to  shut  out  the  sight.  A  shudder  of  terror  shakes 
his  whole  body  as  the  wail  rises  up  about  him  again. 
But  the  next  time,  his  voice,  as  if  under  some  un 
canny  compulsion,  starts  with  the  others.  As  their 
chorus  lifts  he  rises  to  a  sitting  posture  similar  to 
the  others,  swaying  back  and  forth.  His  voice 
reaches  the  highest  pitch  of  sorrow,  of  desolation. 


188  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

The  light  fades  out,  the  other  voices  cease*  and  only 
darkness  is  left.  JONES  can  be  heard  scrambling 
to  his  feet  and  runnmg  off,  his  voice  -  sinking  down 
the  scale  and  receding  as  he  moves  farther  and 
farther  away  in  the  forest.  The  tom-tom  beats 
louder,  quicker,  with  a  more  insistent,  triumphant 
pulsation.] 


SCENE  SEVEN 

SCENE — Fwe  o'clock.  The  foot  of  a  gigantic  tree 
by  the  edge  of  a  great  river.  A  rough  struc 
ture  of  boulders,  like  an  altar,  is  by  the  tree. 
The  raised  river  bank  is  m  the  nearer  back 
ground.  Beyond  this  the  surface  of  the  river 
spreads  out,  brilliant  and  unruffled  in  the 
moonlight,  blotted  out  and  merged  into  a  veil 
of  bluish  mist  in  the  distance.  JONES'  voice 
is  heard  from  the  left  rising  and  falling  in  the 
long,  despairing  wail  of  the  chained  slaves,  to 
the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  tom-tom.  As  his  voice 
sinks  into  silence,  he  enters  the  open  space. 
The  expression  of  his  face  is  fixed  and  stony, 
his  eyes  have  cm  obsessed  glare,  he  moves  with 
a  strange  deliberation  like  a  sleep-walker  or  one 
in  a  trance.  He  looks  around  at  the  tree,  the 
rough  stone  altar,  the  moonlit  surface  of  the 
river  beyond,  and  passes  his  hand  over  his  head 
with  a  vague  gesture  of  puzzled  bewilderment. 
Then,  as  if  in  obedience  to  some  obscure  im 
pulse,  he  sinks  into  a  kneeling,  devotional  pos 
ture  before  the  altar.  Then  he  seems  to  come 
to  himself  partly,  to  have  an  uncertain  realiza 
tion  of  what  he  is  doing,  for  he  straightens  up 
189 


190  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

and   stares    about    him   horrifiedly — m   an   m- 
caherent  mumble. 

What — what  is  I  doin?  What  is — dis  place? 
(Seems  like — seems  like  I  know  dat  tree — an'  dem 
stones — an'  de  river.  I  remember — seems  like  I  been 
heah  befo'.  [Tremblingly.']  Oh,  Gorry,  I'se  skeered 
in  dis  place!  I'se  skeered!  Oh,  Lawd,  pertect  dis 
sinner ! 

[Crawling  away  from  the  altar,  h#  cowers  close  to 
the  ground,  his  face  hidden,  his  shoulders  heaving 
with  sobs  of  hysterical  fright.  From  behind  the 
trunk  of  the  tree,  as  if  he  had  sprung  out  of  it,  the 
figure  of  the  CONGO  WITCH-DOCTOR  appears.  He  is 
wizened  and  old,  naked  except  for  the  fur  of  some 
smaU  animal  tied  about  his  waist,  its  bush?/  tail 
lumgmg  down  m  front.  His  body  is  stained  all  over 
a  bright  red.  Antelope  horns  are  on  each  side  of  his 
head,  branching  upward.  In  on#  hand  he  carries  a 
bone  rattle,  in  the  other  a  charm  stick  with  a  bunch 
of  white  cockatoo  feathers  tied  to  the  end.  A  great 
number  of  glass  beads  and  bone  ornaments  are  about 
his  neck,  ears,  wrists,  and  ankles.  He  struts  noise 
lessly  with  a  queer  prancing  step  to  a  position  in  tlie 
clear  ground  between  JONES  and  the  altar.  Then  with 
a  preliminary,  summoning  stamp  of  his  foot  on  the 
earth,  he  begins  to  dance  and  to  chant.  As  if  wl 
response  to  his  summons  the  beating  of  the  tom 
tom  grows  to  a  -fierce,  exultant  boom  whose  throbs 
seem  to  fill  the  air  with  vibrating  rhythm.  JONES 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  191 

looks  up,  starts  to  spring  to  his  feet,  reaches  a 
half -kneeling,  half-squatting  position  and  remains 
rigidly  fixed  there,  paralyzed  with  awed  fascination 
by  this  new  apparition.  The  WITCH-DOCTOR  sways, 
stamping  with  his  foot,  his  bone  rattle  clicking  the 
time.  His  voice  rises  and  falls  in  a  weird,  monoto 
nous  croon,  without  articulate  word  divisions. 
Gradually  his  dance  becomes  clearly  one  of  a  nar 
rative  in  pantomime,  his  croon  is  an  incantation,  a 
charm,  to  allay  the  fierceness  of  some  implacable 
deity  demanding  sacrifice.  He  fiees,  he  is  pursued 
by  devils,  he  hides,  he  flees  again.  Ever  wilder  and 
wilder  becomes  his  flight,  nearer  and  nearer  draws 
the  pursuing  evil,  more  and  more  the  spirit  of  terror 
gains  possession  of  him.  His  croon,  rising  to  in 
tensity,  is  punctuated  by  shrill  cries.  JONES  has 
become  completely  hypnotized.  His  voice  joins  m 
the  incantation,  m  the  cries,  he  beats  time  with  his 
hands  and  sways  his  body  to  and  fro  from  the 
waist.  The  whole  spirit  and  meaning  of  the  dance 
has  entered  into  him,  has  become  his  spirit.  Finally 
the  theme  of  the  pantomime  halts  on  a  howl  of 
despair,  and  is  taken  up  again  in  a  note  of  savage 
J:ope.  There  is  a  salvation.  The  forces  of  evil 
demand  sacrifice.  They  must  be  appeased.  Thd 
WITCH-DOCTOR  points  with  his  wand  to  the  sacred 
tree,  to  the  river  beyond,  to  the  altar,  and  finally 
to  JONES  with  a  ferocious  command.  JONES  seems 
to  sense  the  meaning  of  this.  It  is  he  who  must 
offer  himself  for  sacrifice.  He  beats  his  forehead 


192  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

abjectly    to    the    ground,    moaning    hysterically.'] 

Mercy,  Oh  Lawd!  Mercy!  Mercy  on  dis  po' 
sinner. 

[The  WITCH-DOCTOR  springs  to  the  river  bank. 
He  stretches  out  his  arms  and  calls  to  some  God 
withm  its  depths.  Then  he  starts  backward  slowly, 
his  arms  remaining  out.  A  hugh  head  of  a  croco 
dile  appears  over  the  bank  and  its  eyes,  glittering 
greenly,  -fasten  upon  JONES.  He  stares  into  them 
fascinatedly.  The  WITCH-DOCTOR  prances  up  to 
him,  touches  him  with  his  wand,  motions  with  hideous 
command  toward  the  waiting  monster.  JONES 
squirms  on  his  belly  nearer  and  nearer,  moaning  con 
tinually.] 

Mercy,  Lawd !     Mercy ! 

[The  crocodile  heaves  more  of  his  enormous  hulk 
onto  the  land.  JONES  squirms  toward  him.  The 
WITCH-DOCTOR'S  voice  shrills  out  in  furious  exulta 
tion,  the  tom-tom  beats  madly.  JONES  cries  out  in 
a  fierce,  exhausted  spasm  of  anguished  pleading."] 

Lawd,  save  me !    Lawd  Jesus,  heah  my  prayer ! 

[Immediately,  in  answer  to  his  prayer,  comes  the 
thought  of  the  one  bullet  left  him.  He  snatches  at 
his  hip,  shoutmg  defiantly. ,] 

De  silver  bullet !    You  don't  git  me  yit ! 

[He  fires  at  the  green  eyes  in  front  of  him.  The 
head  of  the  crocodile  sinks  back  behind  the  river 
banti,  the  WITCH-DOCTOR  springs  behind  the  sacred 
tree  and  disappears.  JONES  lies  with  his  face  fa  -*3*" 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  193 

ground,  his  arms  outstretched,  whimpering  with  fear 
as  the  throb  of  the  tom-tom  fitts  tlie  silence  about 
him  with  a  somber  pulsation,  a  baffled  but  revenge 
ful  power.] 


SCENE  EIGHT 

SCENE — Dawn.  Same  as  scene  two,  the  dividing 
line  of  forest  and  plain.  The  nearest  tree 
trunks  are  dimly  revealed  but  the  forest  behind 
them  is  still  a  mass  of  glooming  shadow.  The 
tom-tom  seems  on  the  very  spot,  so  loud  and 
continuously  vibrating  are  its  beats.  LEM 
enters  from  the  left,  followed  by  a  small  squad 
of  his  soldiers,  and  by  the  Cockney  trader, 
SMITHERS.  LEM  is  a  heavy-set,  ape-faced  old 
savage  of  the  extreme  African  type,  dressed 
only  in  a  loin  cloth.  A  revolver  and  cartridge 
belt  are  about  his  waist.  His  soldiers  are  m 
different  degrees  of  rag-concealed  nakedness. 
All  wear  broad  palm-leaf  hats.  Each  one  car 
ries  a  rifle.  SMITHERS  is  the  same  as  in  Scene 
One.  One  of  the  soldiers,  evidently  a  tracker, 
is  peering  about  keenly  on  the  ground.  He 
grunts  and  points  to  the  spot  where  JONES 
entered  the  forest.  LEM  and  SMITHERS  come 
to  look. 

SMITHERS — [After  a  glance,  turns  away  m  dis 
gust.]     That's  where  *e  went  in  right  enough.    Much 

good  it'll  do  yer.     'E's  miles  orf  by  this  an'  safe  to 

194 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  195 

I  tole  yer  yer'd  lose  'im, 
didn't  I? — wastin'  the  'ole  bloomin'  night  beatin' 
yer  bloody  drum  and  castin'  yer  silly  spells!  Gawd 
blimey,  wot  a  pack! 

LEM — [Gutt urally]  We  cotch  him.  You  see. 
[He  makes  a  motion  to  his  soldiers  who  squat  down 
on  their  haunches  m  a  semi-circle.] 

SMITHERS — [Exasperatedly]  Well,  ain't  yer 
goin'  in  an'  'unt  'im  in  the  woods?  What  the  'ell's 
the  good  of  waitin'? 

LEM — [Imperturbably — squatting  down  himself.] 
We  cotch  him. 

SMITHERS — [Turning  away  from  him  contemptu 
ously]  Aw!  Garn !  'E's  a  better  man  than  the 
lot  o'  you  put  together.  I  'ates  the  sight  o'  'im 
but  I'll  say  that  for  'im.  [A  sound  of  snapping 
twigs  comes  from  the  forest.  The  soldiers  jump  to 
their  feet,  cocking  their  rifles  alertly.  LEM  remains 
sitting  with  an  imperturbable  expression,  but  listen 
ing  intently.  The  sound  from  the  woods  is  re 
peated.  LEM  makes  a  quick  signal  with  his  hand. 
His  followers  creep  quickly  but  noiselessly  into  the 
forest,  scattering  so  that  each  enters  at  a  differ 
ent  spot] 

SMITHERS — [In  the  silence  that  follows — m  a  con 
temptuous  whisper]  You  ain't  thinkin'  that  would 
be  'im,  I  'ope? 

LEM — [Calmly]     We  cotch  him. 

SMITHERS — Blarsted  fat  'eads !  [Then  after  a 
second's  thought — wondermgly]  Still  an'  all,  it 


196  THE  EMPEROR  JONES 

might  'appen.  If  'e  lost  'is  bloody  way  in  these 
stinkin'  woods  'e'd  likely  turn  in  a  circle  without 
'is  knowin'  it.  They  all  does. 

LEM — [Peremptorily.]  Sssh!  [The  reports  of 
several  rifles  sound  from,  the  forest,  followed  a  sec 
ond  later  by  savage,  exultant  yells.  The  beating  of 
the  tom-tom  abruptly  ceases.  LEM  looks  up  at  the 
white  man  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction.]  We  cotch 
him.  Him  dead. 

SMITHERS— -[With  a  snarl.]  'Ow  d'yer  know  it's 
'im  an'  'ow  d'yer  know  Vs  dead? 

LEM — My  mens  dey  got  'um  silver  bullets.  Dey 
kill  him  shore. 

SMITHERS — [Astonished.]  They  got  silver  bul 
lets? 

LEM — Lead  bullet  no  kill  him.  He  got  um  strong 
charm.  I  cook  um  money,  make  um  silver  bullet, 
make  um  strong  charm,  too. 

SMITHERS — [Light  breaking  upon  him.]  So  that's 
wot  you  was  up  to  all  night,  wot?  You  was  scared 
to  put  after  'im  till  you'd  moulded  silver  bullets, 
eh? 

LEM — [Simply  stating  a  fact.]  Yes.  Him  got 
strong  charm.  Lead  no  good. 

SMITHERS — [Slapping  his  thigh  and  guffawing.] 
Haw-haw!  If  yer  don't  beat  all  'ell!  [Then  re 
covering  himself — scornfully.']  I'll  bet  yer  it  ain't 
'im  they  shot  at  all,  yer  bleedin'  looney ! 

LEM — [Calmly.]  Dey  come  bring  him  now.  [Tlie 
soldiers  come  out  of  the  forest,  carrying  JONES' 


THE  EMPEROR  JONES  197 

limp  body.  There  is  a  little  reddish- pur  pie  Jwle 
under  his  left  breast.  He  is  dead.  They  carry  him 
to  LEM,  who  examines  his  body  with  great  satis 
faction.  SMITHERS  leans  over  his  shoulder — in  a  tone 
of  frightened  awe.]  Well,  they  did  for  yer  right 
enough,  Jonsey,  me  lad!  Dead  as  a  'erring! 
[Mockingly.]  Where's  yer  'igh  an'  mighty  airs 
now,  yer  bloomin'  Majesty?  [Then  with  a  grin.] 
Silver  bullets!  Gawd  blimey,  but  yer  died  in  the 
'eighth  o'  style,  any'ow!  [LEM  makes  a  motion  to 
the  soldiers  to  carry  the  body  out  left.  SMITHERS 
speaks  to  him  sneermgly.] 

SMITHERS — And  I  s'pose  you  think  it's  yer  bleed- 
in'  charms  and  yer  silly  beatin'  the  drum  that  made 
'im  run  in  a  circle  when  'e'd  lost  'imself,  don't  yer? 
[But  LEM  makes  no  reply,  does  not  seem  to  hear 
the  question,  walks  out  left  after  his  men.  SMITH 
ERS  looks  after  him  with  contemptuous  scorn.] 
Stupid  as  'ogs,  the  lot  of  'em !  Blarsted  niggers ! 
[Curtain  Falls.] 


DIFF'RENT 

A  Play  in  Two  Acts 


CHARACTERS 

CAPTAIN  CALEB  WILLIAMS 

EMMA  CROSBY 

CAPTAIN   JOHN   CROSBY,  her  father 

MRS.    CROSBY,   her   mother 

JACK  CROSBY,  her  brother 

HARRIET  WILLIAMS,  Caleb's  sister  (later  Mrs.  Rogers} 

ALFRED  ROGERS 

BENNY  ROGERS,  their  son. 


SCENES 

ACT  ONE 

Parlor  of  the  Crosby  home  on  a  side  street  of  a 
seaport  village  m  New  England — mid- after 
noon  of  a  day  in  late  sprmg  in  the  year  1890. 

ACT  TWO 

The  same.  Late  afternoon  of  a  day  m  the  early 
sprmg  of  the  year  1920. 


ACT  ONE 

SCENE — Parlor  of  the  CROSBY  home.  The  room  is 
small  and  low-ceilinged.  Everything  lias  an 
aspect  of  scrupulous  neatness.  On  the  left, 
forward,  a  stiff  plush-covered  chair.  Farther 
back,  in  order,  a  window  looking  out  on  a  vege 
table  garden,  a  black  horsehair  sofa,  and  an 
other  window.  In  the  far  left  corner,  an  old 
mahogany  chest  of  drawers.  To  the  right  of 
it,  in  rear,  a  window  looking  out  on  the  front 
yard.  To  the  right  of  this  window  is  tlie  front 
door,  reached  by  a  dirt  path  through  the  small 
lawn  which  separates  the  house  from  the  street. 
To  the  right  of  door,  another  window.  In  the 
far  right  corner,  a  diminutive,  old-fashioned 
piano  with  a  stool  in  front  of  it.  Near  the  piano 
on  the  right,  a  door  leading  to  the  next  room. 
On  this  side  of  the  roam  are  also  a  small  book 
case  half  filled  with  old  volumes,  a  big  open 
fireplace,  and  another  plush-covered  chair. 
Over  the  fireplace  a  mantel  with  a  marble  clock 
and  a  Rogers  group.  The  walls  are  papered 
a  brown  color.  The  fioor  is  covered  with  a 
dark  carpet.  In  the  center  of  the  room  there 
is  a  clumsy,  marble-topped  table.  On  the  table, 
203 


204  DIFFERENT 

a  large  china  lamp,  a  bulky  Bible  with  a  brass 
clasp,  and  several  books  that  look  suspiciously 
like  cheap  novels.  Near  the  table,  three  plush- 
covered  chairs,  two  of  which  are  rockers.  Sev 
eral  enlarged  photos  of  strained,  stern-looking 
people  in-  uncomfortable  poses  are  hung  on  the 


It  is  mid-afternoon  of  a  fine  day  in  late 
spring  of  the  year  1890.  Bright  sunlight 
streams  through  the  windows  on  the  left. 
Through  the  window  and  the  screen  door  in  the 
rear  the  fresh  green  of  the  lawn  and  of  the  elm 
trees  that  line  the  street  can  be  seen.  Stiff, 
white  curtains  are  at  all  the  windows. 

As  the  curtain  rises,  EMMA  CROSBY  and 
CALEB  WILLIAMS  are  discovered.  EMMA  is  a 
slender  girl  of  twenty,  rather  under  the  medium 
height.  Her  face,  in  spite  of  its  plam  features, 
gives  an  impression  of  prettiness,  due  to  her 
large,  soft  blue  eyes  which  have  an  incongruous 
quality  of  absent-minded  romantic  dreaminess 
about  them.  Her  mouth  and  chin  are  heavy,  full 
of  a  self-willed  stubborness.  Although  her 
body  is  slight  and  thin,  there  is  a  quick,  nervous 
vitality  about  all  her  movements  tliat  reveals 
an  underlying  constitution  of  reserve  power  and 
health.  She  has  light  brown  hair,  thick  and 
heavy.  She  is  dressed  soberly  and  neatly  in  her 
black  Sunday  best,  style  of  the  period. 

CALEB    WILLIAMS   is    tall   and  powerfully 


DIFFERENT  205 

built,  about  thirty.  Black  hair,  keen,  dark 
eyes,  face  rugged  and  bronzed,  mouth  obsti 
nate  but  good-natured.  He,  also,  is  got  up  in 
black  Sunday  best  and  is  uncomfortably  self- 
conscious  and  stiff  therein. 

They  are  sitting  on  the  horsehair  sofa,  side 
by  side.  His  arm  is  about  her  waist.  She 
holds  one  of  Ms  big  hands  in  both  of  hers,  lier 
head  leaning  back  against  his  shoulder,  her 
eyes  half  closed  in  a  dreamy  content  edness. 
He  stares  before  him  rigidly,  his  whole  atti 
tude  wooden  and  fixed  as  if  he  were  posing  for 
a  photograph;  yet  his  eyes  are  expressively 
tender  and  protecting  when  he  glances  down 
at  her  diffidently  out  of  the  corners  without 
moving  his  head. 

EMMA — [Sighing  happily.]  Gosh,  I  wish  we  could 
sit  this  way  forever!  [Then  after  a  pause,  as  Tie 
makes  no  comment  except  a  concurring  squeeze.] 
Don't  you,  Caleb? 

CALEB — [With  another  squeeze — emphatically.] 
Hell,  yes !  I'd  like  it,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Softly.]  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  swear 
so  awful  much,  Caleb. 

CALEB — S'cuse  me,  Emmer,  it  jumped  out  o'  my 
mouth  afore  I  thought.  [Then  with  a  grin]  You'd 
ought  to  be  used  to  that  part  o'  men's  wickedness — 
with  your  Pa  and  Jack  cussin*  about  the  house  all 
the  time. 


206  DIFF'RENT 

EMMA — [With  a  smile.']  Oh,  I  haven't  no  strict 
religious  notions  about  it.  I'm  hardened  in  sin  so 
far's  they're  concerned.  Goodness  me,  how  would 
Ma  and  me  ever  have  lived  in  the  same  house  with 
them  two  if  we  wasn't  used  to  it?  I  don't  even  notice 
their  cussing1  no  more.  And  I  don't  mind  hearing  it 
from  the  other  men,  either.  Being1  sea-faring  men, 
away  from  their  women  folks  most  of  the  time,  I 
know  it  just  gets  to  be  part  of  their  natures  and 
they  ain't  responsible.  [Decisively.]  But  you're 
different.  You  just  got  to  be  different  from  the  rest. 

CALEB — [Amused  by  her  seriousness.]  Diff'rent? 
Ain't  I  a  sea-farin'  man,  too? 

EMMA — You're  different  just  the  same.  That's 
what  made  me  fall  in  love  with  you  'stead  of  any  of 
them.  And  you've  got  to  stay  diff'rent.  Promise 
me,  Caleb,  that  you'll  always  stay  diff'rent  from 
them — even  after  we're  married  years  and  years. 

CALEB — [Embarrassed.]  Why — I  promise  to  do 
my  best  by  you,  Emmer.  You  know  that,  don't  ye? 
On'y  don't  git  the  notion  in  your  head  I'm  any  bet- 
ter'n  the  rest.  They're  all  good  men — most  of  'cm, 
anyway.  Don't  tell  me,  for  instance,  you  think  I'm 
better'n  your  Pa  or  Jack — 'cause  I  ain't.  And  I 
don't  know  as  I'd  want  to  be,  neither. 

EMMA — [Excitedly.]  But  you  got  to  want  to  be 
— when  I  ask  it. 

CALEB — [Surprised.]     Better'n  your  Pa? 

EMMA — [Struggling  to  convey  her  meaning.] 
Why,  Pa's  all  right.  He's  a  fine  man — and  Jack's 


DIFF'RENT  £07 

all  right,  too.  I  wouldn't  hear  a  bad  word  about 
them  for  anything.  And  the  others  are  all  right  in 
their  way,  too,  I  s'pose.  Only — don't  you  see  what 
I  mean  ? — I  look  on  you  as  diff 'rent  from  all  of  them. 
I  mean  there's  things  that's  all  right  for  them  to  do 
that  wouldn't  be  for  you — in  my  mind,  anyway. 

CALEB — -{Puzzled  and  a  bit  uneasy.]  Sailors  ain't 
plaster  saints,  Emmer, — not  a  darn  one  of  'em  ain't ! 

EMMA — {Hurt  and  disappointed.']  Then  you  won't 
promise  me  to  stay  diff 'rent  for  my  sake? 

CALEB — {With  rough  tenderness.]  Oh,  hell, 
Emmer,  I'll  do  any  cussed  thing  in  the  world  you 
want  me  to,  and  you  know  it ! 

EMMA — [Lovwigly .]  Thank  you,  Caleb.  It  means 
a  lot  to  me — more'n  you  think.  And  don't  you  think 
I'm  diff 'rent,  too — not  just  the  same  as  all  the  other 
girls  hereabouts? 

CALEB — 'Course  you  be !  Ain't  I  always  said  that  ? 
You're  wo'th  the  whole  pack  of  'em  put  together. 

EMMA — Oh,  I  don't  mean  I'm  any  better.  I  mean 
I  just  look  at  things  different  from  what  they  do — 
getting  married,  for  example,  and  other  things,  too. 
And  so  I've  got  it  fixed  in  my  head  that  you  and  me 
ought  to  make  a  married  couple — diff'rent  from  the 
rest — not  that  they  ain't  all  right  in  their  way. 

CALEB  —  {Puzzled — uncertainly.]  Waal  —  it's 
bound  to  be  from  your  end  of  it,  you  bein*  like  you 
are.  But  I  ain't  so  sure  o'  mine. 

EMMA — Well,  I  am  \ 

CALEB — {With    a   grin.]     You    got    me   scared, 


208  DIFF'RENT 

Emmer.  I'm  scared  you'll  want  me  to  live  up  to  one 
of  them  high-fangled  heroes  you  been  readin'  about 
in  them  books.  [He  indicates  the  novels  on  the 
table.} 

EMMA — No,  I  don't.  I  want  you  to  be  just  like 
yourself,  that's  all. 

CALEB — That's  easy.  It  ain't  hard  bein'  a  plain, 
ordinary  cuss. 

EMMA — You  are  not ! 

CALEB — [With  a  laugh.}  Remember,  I'm  warnin' 
you,  Emmer;  and  after  we're  married  and  you  find 
me  out,  you  can't  say  I  got  you  under  no  false  pre 
tences. 

EMMA — [Laughing.}  I  won't.  I  won't  ever  need 
to.  [Then  after  a  pause.}  Just  think,  it's  only  two 
days  more  before  you  and  me'll  be  man  and  wife. 

CALEB — [Squeezing  her.}  Waal,  it's  about  time, 
ain't  it? — after  waitin'  three  years  for  me  to  git 
enough  money  saved — and  us  not  seein'  hide  or  hair 
of  each  other  the  last  two  of  'em.  [With  a  laugh.} 
Shows  ye  what  trust  I  put  in  you,  Emmer,  when  I 
kin  go  off  on  a  two  year  whalin'  vige  and  leave  you  all 
'lone  for  all  the  young  fellers  in  town  to  make  eyes 
at. 

EMMA — But  lots  and  lots  of  the  others  does  the 
same  thing  without  thinking  nothing  about  it. 

CALEB — [With  a  laugh.}  Yes,  but  I'm  different, 
like  you  says. 

EMMA — [Laughing.}    Oh,  you're  poking  fun  now. 

CALEB — [With  a  wink.}    And  you  know  as  well's 


DIFF'RENT  209 

me  that  some  o'  the  others  finds  out  some  funny 
things  that's  been  done  when  they  was  away. 

EMMA — [Laughing  at  first.}  Yes,  but  you  know 
I'm  diff'rent,  too.  [Then  frowning.]  But  don't  let's 
talk  about  that  sort  o'  ructions.  I  hate  to  think  of 
such  things — even  joking.  I  ain't  like  that  sort. 

CALEB — Thunder,  I  know  you  ain't,  Emmer.  I 
was  on'y  jokin'. 

EMMA — And  I  never  doubted  you  them  two  years ; 
and  I  won't  when  you  sail  away  again,  neither. 

CALEB — [With  a  twinkle  in  his  eyeJ\  No,  even  a 
woman'd  find  it  hard  to  git  jealous  of  a  whale! 

EMMA — [Laughing.]  I  wasn't  thinking  of  whales, 
silly !  But  there's  plenty  of  diversion  going  on  in 
the  ports  you  touched,  if  you'd  a  mind  for  it. 

CALEB — Waal,  I  didn't  have  no  mind  for  it,  that's 
sartin.  My  fust  vige  as  skipper,  you  don't  s'pose  I 
had  time  for  no  monkey-shinin',  do  ye?  Why,  I  was 
that  anxious  to  bring  back  your  Pa's  ship  with  a  fine 
vige  that'd  make  him  piles  o'  money,  I  didn't  even 
think  of  nothin'  else. 

EMMA — 'Cepting  me,  I  hope? 

CALEB — O*  course !  What  was  my  big  aim  in  doin' 
it  if  it  wasn't  so's  we'd  git  married  when  I  come  to 
home?  And  then,  s'far  as  ports  go,  we  didn't  tech 
at  one  the  last  year — 'ceptin'  when  that  durn  tem 
pest  blowed  us  south  and  we  put  in  at  one  o'  the 
Islands  for  water. 

EMMA — What  island?  You  never  told  me  noth 
ing  about  that. 


210  DIFFERENT 

CALEB — [Growing  suddenly  very  embarrassed  as 
if  some  memory  occurred  to  him.}  Ain't  nothin*  to 
tell,  that's  why.  Just  an  island  near  the  Line,  that's 
all.  O'ny  naked  heathen  livin'  there — brown  col 
ored  savages  that  ain't  even  Christians.  [He  gets  to 
his  feet  abruptly  and  putts  out  his  watch.']  Gittin' 
late,  must  be.  I  got  to  go  down  to  the  store  and  git 
some  things  for  Harriet  afore  I  forgets  'em. 

EMMA — [Rising  also  and  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.}  But  you  did  think  of  rne  and  miss  me  all 
the  time  you  was  gone,  didn't  you? — same  as  I  did 
you. 

CALEB — 'Course  I  did.     Every  minute. 

EMMA — [Nestling  closer  to  him — softly.}  Pm 
glad  of  that,  Caleb.  Well,  good-bye  for  a  little  while. 

CALEB — I'll  step  in  again  for  a  spell  afore  supper 
— that  is,  if  you  want  me  to. 

EMMA — Yes,  course  I  do,  Caleb.  Good-bye.  [She 
lifts  her  face  to  his.} 

CALEB — Good-bye,  Emmer.  [He  kisses  her  and 
holds  her  in  his  arms  for  a  moment.  JACK  comes  up 
the  walk  to  the  screen  door.  They  do  not  notice  his 
approach.} 

JACK — [Peering  in  and  seeing  tJiem — m  a  joking 
bellow.}  Belay,  there!  [They  separate  with  startled 
exclamations.  JACK  comes  in  grinning.  He  is  a 
hulking -,  stocky-built  young  fellow  of  25.  His  heavy 
face  is  sunburned.,  handsome  in  a  course,  good-nat 
ured  animal  -fashion.  His  small  blue  eyes  twinkle 
with'  the  unconsciously  malicious  humor  of  tJie  born 


DIFF'RENT 

practical  joker.  He  wears  thigh  seaboots  turned 
down  from  the  knees,  dirty  cotton  shirt  and  pants, 
and  a  yellow  sou'wester  pushed  jauntily  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  revealing  his  dishevelled,  curly  blond 
hair.  He  carries  a  string  of  cod  heads. ] 

JACK — [Laughing  at  the  embarrassed  expression 
on  their  faces.]  Caught  ye  that  time,  by  gum!  Go 
ahead !  Kiss  her  again,  Caleb.  Don't  mind  me. 

EMMA — [With  flurried  annoyance.']  You  got  a 
head  on  you  just  like  one  of  them  cod  heads  you're 
carrying — that  stupid!  I  should  think  you'd  be 
ashamed  at  your  age — shouting  to  scare  folks  as  if 
you  was  a  little  boy. 

JACK — [Putting  his  arm  about  her  waist.]  There, 
kitty,  don't  git  to  spittin'.  [Stroking  her  hair.] 
Puss,  puss,  puss!  Nice  kitty!  [He  laughs.] 

EMMA — [Forced  to  smile — pushing  him  away.] 
Get  away!  You'll  never  get  sense.  Land  sakes, 
what  a  brother  to  have! 

JACK — Oh,  I  dunno.  I  ain't  so  bad,  as  brothers 
go — eh,  Caleb? 

CALEB — [Smiling.]     I  reckon  you'll  do,  Jack. 

JACK — See  there!  Listen  to  Caleb.  You  got  to 
take  his  word — love,  honor,  and  obey,  ye  know, 
Emmer. 

EMMA — [Laughing.]  Leave  it  to  men  folks  to 
stick  up  for  each  other,  right  or  wrong. 

JACK — [CockUy.]  Waal,  I'm  willin'  to  leave  it  to 
the  girls,  too.  Ask  any  of  'em  you  knows  if  I  ain't  a 


DLFF'RENT 

jim-dandy  to  have  for  a  brother.  [He  winks  at 
CALEB  who  grms  back  at  him.] 

EMMA — [With  a  sniff.]  I  reckon  you  don't  play 
much  brother  with  them — the  kind  you  knows.  You 
may  fool  'em  into  believing  you're  some  pumpkins 
but  they'd  change  their  minds  if  they  had  to  live  in 
the  same  house  with  you  playing  silly  jokes  all  the 
time. 

JACK — [Provokingly.]  A  good  lot  on  'em  'd  be 
on'y  too  damn  glad  to  git  me  in  the  same  house — if  I 
was  fool  enough  to  git  married. 

EMMA — "Pride  goeth  before  a  fall."  But  shucks, 
what's  the  good  paying  any  attention  to  you.  [She 
smiles  at  him  affectionately.] 

JACK — [Exaggeratedly.]  You  see,  Caleb?  See 
how  she  misuses  me — her  lovin'  brother.  Now  you 
know  what  you'll  be  up  against  for  the  rest  o*  your 
natural  days. 

CALEB — Don't  see  no  way  but  what  I  got  to  bear 
it,  Jack. 

EMMA — Caleb  needn't  fear.     He's  diff'rent. 

JACK — [With  a  sudden  guffaw.]  Oh,  hell,  yes  !  I 
was  forgittin'.  Caleb's  a  Sunday  go-to-meetin'  Saint, 
ain't  he?  Yes,  he  is! 

EMMA — [With  real  resentment.]  He's  better'n 
what  you  are,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 

JACK — [With  a  still  louder  laugh.]  Ho-ho ! 
Caleb's  one  o'  them  goody-goody  heroes  out  o'  them 
story  books  you're  always  readin',  ain't  he? 


DIFFERENT  213 

CALEB — [Soberly — a  bit  disturbed.]  I  was  tellin' 
Emmer  not  to  take  me  that  high. 

JACK — No  use,  Caleb.  She  won't  hear  of  it.  She's 
got  her  head  sot  t'other  way.  You'd  ought  to  heard 
her  argyin'  when  you  was  gone  about  what  a  parson's 
pet  you  was.  Butter  won't  melt  in  your  mouth,  no 
siree !  Waal,  love  is  blind — and  deaf,  too,  as  the 
feller  says — and  I  can't  argy  no  more  'cause  I  got  to 
give  Ma  these  heads.  [He  goes  to  the  door  on  right 
— then  glances  back  at  his  sister  maliciously  and  says 
meaningly]  You  ought  to  have  a  talk  with  Jim 
Benson,  Emmer.  Oughtn't  she,  Caleb.  [He  wmks 
ponderously  and  goes  off  laughing  uproariously] 

CALEB — [His  face  worried  and  angry]  Jack's  a 
durn  fool  at  times,  Emmer — even  if  he  is  your 
brother.  He  needs  a  good  lickin'. 

EMMA — [S tarmg  at  him — uneasily]  What'd  he 
mean  about  Jim  Benson,  Caleb? 

CALEB — [Frowning.]  I  don't  know — ezactly. 
Makin'  up  foolishness  for  a  joke,  I  reckon. 

EMMA — You  don't  know — exactly?  Then  there  is 
— something? 

CALEB — [Quickly]  Not  as  I  know  on.  On'y  Jim 
Benson's  one  o'  them  slick  jokers,  same's  Jack;  can't 
keep  their  mouths  shet  or  mind  their  own  business. 

EMMA — Jim  Benson  was  mate  with  you  this  last 
trip,  wasn't  he? 

CALEB — Yes. 

EMMA — Didn't  him  and  you  get  along? 

CALEB — [A  trifle  impatiently]     'Course  we  did. 


DIFF'RENT 

Jim's  all  right.  We  got  along  fust  rate.  He  just 
can't  keep  his  tongue  from  waggin',  that's  all's  the 
matter  with  him. 

EMMA — [Uneasily.]  What's  it  got  to  wag  about? 
You  ain't  done  nothing  wrong,  have  you  ? 

CALEB — Wrong?  No,  nothin'  a  man'd  rightly  call 
wrong. 

EMMA — Nothing  you'd  be  shamed  to  tell  me? 

CALEB — [Awkwardly.]     Why — no,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Pleadingly.]     You'd  swear  that,  Caleb? 

CALEB — [Hesitating  for  a  second — then  firmly.] 
Yes,  I'd  swear.  I'd  own  up  to  everything  fair  and 
square  I'd  ever  done,  if  it  comes  to  that  p'int.  I  ain't 
shamed  o'  anything  I  ever  done,  Emmer.  On'y — 
women  folks  ain't  got  to  know  everything,  have  they  ? 

EMMA — [Turning  away  from  him — f right enedly.] 
Oh,  Caleb! 

CALEB — [Preoccupied  with  his  own  thoughts — 
going  to  the  door  m  rear.]  I'll  see  you  later,  Em 
mer.  I  got  to  go  up  street  now  more'n  ever.  I  want 
to  give  that  Jim  Benson  a  talkin'  to  he  won't  forgit 
in  a  hurry — that  is,  if  he's  been  tellin'  tales.  Good 
bye,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Faintly.]  Good-bye,  Caleb.  [He  goes 
out.  She  sits  in  one  of  the  rockers  by  the  table,  her 
face  greatly  troubled,  her  manner  nervous  and  un 
easy.  Finally  she  makes  a  decision,  goes  quickly  to 
the  door  on  the  right  and  calls.]  Jack!  Jack! 

JACK — [From  the  kitchen.]     What  you  want? 

EMMA — Come  here  a  minute,  will  you? 


DIFF'RENT  215 

JACK — Jest  a  second.  [She  comes  back  lay  the 
table,  'fighting  to  conceal  her  agitation.  After  a 
moment,  JACK  comes  m  from  the  right.  He  has  evi 
dently  been  washing  up,  for  his  face  is  red  and  shiny, 
his  hair  wet  and  slicked  m  a  part.  He  looks  around 
for  CALEB.]  Where's  Caleb? 

EMMA — He  had  to  go  up  street.  [Then  coming  to 
the  point  abruptly — with  feigned  indifference.] 
What's  that  joke  about  Jim  Benson,  Jack?  It 
seemed  to  get  Caleb  all  riled  up. 

JACK — [With  a  chuckle."]  You  got  to  ask  Caleb 
about  that,  Emmer. 

EMMA — I  did.  He  didn't  seem  to  want  to  own  up 
it  was  anything. 

JACK — [With  a  laugh.]  'Course  he  wouldn't.  He 
don't  'preciate  a  joke  when  it's  on  him. 

EMMA — How'd  you  come  to  hear  of  it? 

JACK — From  Jim.  Met  him  this  afternoon  and  me 
and  him  had  a  long  talk.  He  was  tellin'  me  all  'bout 
their  vige. 

EMMA — Then  it  was  on  the  vige  this  joke  hap 
pened  ? 

JACK — Yes.  It  was  when  they  put  in  to  git  water 
at  them  South  Islands  where  the  tempest  blowed  'em. 

EMMA — Oh.  [Suspiciously.]  Caleb  didn't  seem 
willing  to  tell  me  much  about  their  touching  there. 

JACK — [Chuckling.]  'Course  he  didn't.  Wasn't  I 
sayin'  the  joke's  on  him?  [Coming  closer  to  her — vri 
a  low,  confidential  tone,  chucklmgly.]  We'll  fix  up  a 
joke  on  Caleb,  Emmer,  what  d'ye  say? 


216  DIFF'RENT 

EMMA — [Tortured  by  -foreboding — resolved  to 
•find  out  what  is  back  of  aU  this  by  hook  or  crook — 
forcing  a  smile.]  All  right,  Jack.  I'm  willing. 

JACK — Then  I'll  tell  you  what  Jim  told  me.  And 
you  put  it  up  to  Caleb,  see,  and  pertend  you're  mad- 
der'n  hell.  [Unable  to  restrain  his  mirth.]  Ho-ho! 
It'll  git  him  wild  if  you  do  that.  On'y  I  didn't  tell 
ye,  mind !  You  heard  it  from  someone  else.  I  don't 
want  to  git  Caleb  down  on  me.  And  you'd  hear 
about  it  from  someone  sooner  or  later  'cause  Jim  and 
the  rest  o'  the  boys  has  been  tellin'  the  hull  town. 

EMMA — [Taken  aback — frowning]  So  all  the 
town  knows  about  ft? 

JACK — Yes,  and  they're  all  laffin'  at  Caleb.  Oh, 
it  ain't  nothin'  so  out  o'  the  ordinary.  Most  o'  the 
whalin'  men  hereabouts  have  run  up  against  it  in 
their  time.  I've  heard  Pa  and  all  the  others  tellin' 
stories  like  it  out  o'  their  experience.  On'y  with  Caleb 
it  ended  up  so  damn  funny !  [He  laughs.]  Ho-ho  ! 
Jimminy ! 

EMMA — [In  a  strained  voice]  Well,  ain't  you 
going  to  tell  me? 

JACK — I'm  comin'  to  it.  Waal,  seems  like  they  all 
went  ashore  on  them  islands  to  git  water  and  the 
native  brown  women,  all  naked  a'most,  come  round  to 
meet  'em  same  as  they  always  does — wantin'  to  swap 
for  terbaccer  and  other  tradin'  stuff  with  straw  mats 
and  whatever  other  junk  they  got.  Them  brown  gals 
was  purty  as  the  devil,  Jim  says — that  is,  in  their 
heathen,  outlandish  way — and  the  boys  got  makin' 


DIFF'RENT  217 

up  to  'em ;  and  then,  o'  course,  everything  happened 
like  it  always  does,  and  even  after  they'd  got  all  the 
water  they  needed  aboard,  it  took  'em  a  week  to 
round  up  all  hands  from  where  they  was  foolin'  about 
with  them  nigger  women. 

EMMA — [In  anguish.~\  Yes — but  Caleb — he  ain't 
like  them  others.  He's  diff'rent. 

JACK — [With  a  sly  wmk.~\  Oho,  is  he?  I'm  comin' 
to  Caleb.  Waal,  seems  s'if  he  kept  aboard  mindin'  his 
own  business  and  winkin'  at  what  the  boys  was  doin'. 
And  one  o'  them  gals — the  purtiest  on  'em,  Jim  says 
— she  kept  askin',  where's  the  captain  ?  She  wouldn't 
have  nothin*  to  do  with  any  o'  the  others.  She 
thought  on'y  the  skipper  was  good  enough  for  her,  I 
reckon.  So  one  night  jest  afore  they  sailed  some  o' 
the  boys,  bein'  drunk  on  native  rum  they'd  stole, 
planned  to  put  up  a  joke  on  Caleb  and  on  that  brown 
gal,  too.  So  they  tells  her  the  captain  had  sent  for 
her  and  she  was  to  swim  right  out  and  git  aboard  the 
ship  where  he  was  waitin'  for  her  alone.  That  part 
of  it  was  true  enough  'cause  Caleb  was  alone,  all 
hands  havin'  deserted,  you  might  say. 

EMMA — [Lettmg  an  involuntary  exclamation  es 
cape  her. ~\  Oh! 

JACK — Waal,  that  fool  brown  gal  b'lieved  'em  and 
she  swum  right  off,  tickled  to  death.  What  hap 
pened  between  'em  when  she  got  aboard,  nobody 
knows.  Some  thinks  one  thing  and  some  another. 
And  I  ain't  sayin'  nothm*  'bout  it — [With  a  wirikJ\ 
but  I  know  damn  well  what  I'd  'a  done  in  Caleb's 


218  DIFF'RENT 

boots,  and  I  guess  he  ain't  the  cussed  old  woman  you 
makes  him  out.  But  that  part  of  it's  got  nothin'  to 
do  with  the  joke  nohow.  The  joke's  this :  that  brown 
gal  took  an  awful  shine  to  Caleb  and  when  she  saw 
the  ship  was  gittin'  ready  to  sail  she  raised  ructions, 
standin'  on  the  beach  howlin'  and  screamin',  and 
beatin'  her  chest  with  her  fists.  And  when  they  ups 
anchor,  she  dives  in  the  wcter  and  swims  out  after 
'em.  There's  no  wind  hardly  and  she  kin  swim  like 
a  fish  and  catches  up  to  'em  and  tries  to  climb  aboard. 
At  fust,  Caleb  tries  to  treat  her  gentle  and  argy 
with  her  to  go  back.  But  she  won't  listen,  she  gits 
wilder  and  wilder,  and  finally  he  gits  sick  of  it  and 
has  the  boys  push  her  off  with  oars  while  he  goes  and 
hides  in  the  cabin.  Even  this  don't  work  She  keeps 
swimmin'  round  and  yellin'  for  Caleb.  And  finally 
they  has  to  p'int  a  gun  at  her  and  shoot  in  the 
water  near  her  afore  the  crazy  cuss  gives  up  and 
swims  back  to  home,  howlin'  all  the  time.  [With  a 
chuckle.]  And  Caleb  lyin'  low  in  the  cabin  skeered  to 
move  out,  and  all  hands  splittin'  their  sides !  Gosh,  I 
wish  I'd  been  there !  It  must  have  been  f  unnier'n  hell ! 
[He  laughs  loudly — then  noticing  his  sister's  stony 
expression,  stops  abruptly.]  What're  you  pullin' 
that  long  face  for,  Emmer?  [Offendedly.]  Hell, 
you're  a  nice  one  to  tell  a  j  oke  to ! 

EMMA — [After  a  pause — forcing  the  word"  out 
slowly.]  Caleb's  comin'  back  here,  Jack.  I  want  you 
to  see  him  for  me.  I  want  you  to  tell  him 


DIFF'RENT  219 

JACK — Not  me!  You  got  to  play  this  joke  on 
him  yourself  or  it  won't  work. 

EMMA — [Tensely. ]  This  ain't  a  joke,  Jack — 
what  I  mean.  I  want  you  to  tell  him  I've  changed 
my  mind  and  I  ain't  going  to  marry  him. 

JACK— What ! 

EMMA — I  been  thinking  things  over,  tell  him — and 
I  take  back  my  promise — and  he  can  have  back  his 
ring — and  I  ain't  going  to  marry  him. 

JACK — [Flabbergasted — peering  into  her  face 

anxiously.]  Say — what  the  hell ?  Are  you 

tryin'  to  josh  me,  Emmer?  Or  are  you  gone  crazy 
all  of  a  sudden? 

EMMA — I  ain't  joking  nor  crazy  neither.  You  tell 
him  what  I  said. 

JACK — [Vehemently.]  I  will  like  Say, 

what's  come  over  you,  anyhow? 

EMMA — My  eyes  are  opened,  that's  all,  and  I  ain't 
going  to  marry  him. 

JACK — Is  it — 'count  of  that  joke  about  Caleb  I 
was  tellin'  you? 

EMMA — [Her  voice  trembling.]  It's  'count  of 
something  I  got  in  my  own  head.  What  you  told 
only  goes  to  prove  I  was  wrong  about  it. 

JACK — [Greatly  perturbed  now]  Say,  what's  the 
matter?  Can't  you  take  a  joke?  Are  you  mad  at 
him  'count  o'  that  brown  gal? 

EMMA — Yes,  I  am — and  I  ain't  going  to  marry 
him  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

JACK — [Argument atively]     Jealous  of  a  brown, 


220  DIFFERENT 

heathen  woman  that  ain't  no  better'n  a  nigger?  God 
sakes,  Emmer,  I  didn't  think  you  was  that  big  a  fool. 
Why  them  kind  o'  women  ain't  women  like  you.  They 
don't  count  like  folks.  They  ain't  Christians — nor 
nothin' ! 

EMMA — That  ain't  it.    I  don't  care  what  they  are. 

JACK — And  it  wasn't  Caleb  anyhow.  It  was  all 
her  fixin'.  And  how'd  you  know  he  had  anything  to 
do  with  her — like  that?  I  ain't  said  he  did.  Jim 
couldn't  swear  he  did  neither.  And  even  if  he  did — 
what  difference  does  it  make?  It  ain't  rightly  none 
o'  your  business  what  he  does  on  a  vige.  He  didn't 
ask  her  to  marry  him,  did  he  ? 

EMMA — I  don't  care.  He'd  ought  to  have  acted 
diff'rent. 

JACK — Oh  golly,  there  you  go  agen  makin'  a 
durned  creepin'- Jesus  out  of  him !  What  d'you  want 
to  marry,  anyhow — a  man  or  a  sky-pilot?  Caleb's 
a  man,  ain't  he? — and  a  damn  good  man  and  as 
smart  a  skipper  as  there  be  in  these  parts!  What 
more  d'you  want,  anyhow? 

EMMA — [Violently.]  I  want  you  to  shet  up! 
You're  too  dumb  stupid  and  bad  yourself  to  ever 
know  what  I'm  thinking. 

JACK — [Resent f 'idly.]  Go  to  the  devil,  then!  I'm 
goin'  to  tell  Ma  and  sic  her  onto  you.  You'll  maybe 
listen  to  her  and  git  some  sense.  [He  stamps  out, 
right,  while  he  is  speaking.  EMMA  bursts  into  sobs 
and  throws  herself  on  a  chair,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands.  HARRIET  WILLIAMS  and  ALFRED  ROGERS 


DIFF'RENT 

come  up  the  path  to  the  door  m  rear.  Peering 
through  the  screen  and  catching  sight  of  EMMA, 
HARRIET  calls. ]  Emmer!  [EMMA  leaps  to  her  feet 
and  dabs  at  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief  in  a  vam 
effort  to  conceal  traces  of  her  tears.  HARRIET  has 
come  in,  followed  by  ROGERS.  CALEB'S  sister  is  a  tall, 
dark  girl  of  twenty.  Her  face  is  plainly  homely  and 
yet  attracts  the  eye  by  a  certain  boldly-appealing 
vitality  of  self-confident  youth.  She  wears  an  apron 
and  has  evidently  just-  come  out  of  the  kitchen. 
ROGERS  is  a  husky  young  fisherman  of  twenty-four, 
washed  and  slicked  up  m  his  ill-fitting  best.] 

ROGERS — Hello,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Huskily,  trying  to  force \a  smile.]  Hello, 
Harriet.  Hello,  Alfred.  Won't  you  set? 

HARRIET — No,  I  jest  run  over  from  the  house  a 
second  to  see  if Where's  Caleb,  Emmer? 

EMMA — He's  gone  up  street. 

HARRIET — And  here  I  be  waitin'  in  the  kitchen  for 
him  to  bring  back  the  things  so's  I  can  start  his  sup 
per.  [With  a  laugh. and* a  roguish  look  at  ROGERS.] 
Dearie  me,  it  ain't  no  use  dependin'  on  a  man  to  re 
member  nothin'  when  he's  in  love. 

ROGERS — [Putting  his  arm  about  her  waist  and 
giving  her  a  squeeze — grinning.]  How  'bout  me? 
Ain't  I  in  love  and  ain't  I  as  reliable  as  an  old  hoss  ? 

HARRIET — Oh,  you!     You're  the  worst  of  'em  all. 

ROGERS — You  don't  think  so.  [Pie  tries  to  kiss 
her.] 


DIFF'RENT 

HARRIET — Stop  it.  Ain't  you  got  no  manners? 
What'll  Emmer  think? 

ROGERS — Emmer  can't  throw  stones.  Her  and 
Caleb  is  worser  at  spoonin'  than  what  we  are.  [HAR 
RIET  breaks  away  -from  him  laughingly  and  goes  to 
EMMA.] 

HARRIET — [Suddenly  noticing  the  expression  of 
misery  on  EMMA'S  face — astonished.']  Why,  Emmer 
Crosby,  what's  the  matter?  You  look  as  if  you'd  lost 
your  last  friend. 

EMMA — [Trying  to  smile.]  Nothing.  It's  noth 
ing. 

HARRIET — It  is,  too!  Why,  I  do  believe  you've 
been  crying! 

EMMA — No,  I  ain't. 

HARRIET — You  have,  too!  [Putting  her  arms 
about  EMMA.]  Goodness,  what's  happened?  You 
and  Caleb  ain't  had  a  spat,  have  you,  with  your 
weddin'  only  two  days  off? 

EMMA — [With  quick  resentful  resolution.]  There 
ain't  going  to  be  any  wedding. 

HARRIET— What! 

ROGERS — [Pricking  up  his  ears — inquisitively] 
Huh? 

EMMA — Not  in  two  days  nor  no  time. 

HARRIET — [Dumbfounded]  Why,  Emmer  Crosby 
Whatever's  got  into  you?  You  and  Caleb  must  have 
had  an  awful  spat! 

ROGERS — [With   a  man-of-the-world  attitude  of 


DIFF'RENT 

cynicism.]  Don't  take  her  so  dead  serious,  Harriet. 
Emmer'll  git  .over  it  like  you  all  does. 

EMMA — [Angrily.]  You  shet  up,  Alf  Rogers! 
[MRS.  CROSBY  enters  bustlingly  from  the  right.  She 
is  a  large,  fat,  florid  woman  of  fifty.  In  spite  of  her 
two  hundred  and  more  pounds  she  is  surprisingly  ac 
tive,  and  the  passive,  lazy  expression  of  her  round 
moon  face  is  belied  by  her  quick,  efficient  movements. 
She  exudes  an  atmosphere  of  motherly  good  nature. 
She  wears  an  apron  on  which  she  is  drying  her  hands 
as  she  enters.  JACK  follows  her  into  the  room.  He 
has  changed  to  a  dark  suit,  is  ready  for  "up  street"] 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Smiling  at  HARRIET  and  ROGERS.] 
Afternoon,  Harriet — and  Alf. 

HARRIET — Afternoon,  Ma. 

ROGERS — Afternoon. 

JACK — [Grinning]  There  she  be,  Ma.  [Points 
to  Emma.]  Don't  she  look  like  she'd  scratch  a  fel 
ler's  eyes  out!  Phew!  Look  at  her  back  curve! 
Meow?  Sptt-sptt!  Nice  puss!  [He  gives  a  vivid 
imitation  of  a  cat  fight  at  this  last.  Then  he  and 
ROGERS  roar  with  laughter  and  HARRIET  cannot  re 
strain  a  giggle  and  MRS.  CROSBY  smiles.  EMMA 
stares  stonily  before*her  as  if  she  didn't  hear] 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Good-naturedly.]  Shet  up  your 
foolin'.  Jack. 

JACK — [Pretending  to  be  hurt.]  Nobody  in  this 
house  kin  take  a  joke.  [He  grins  and  beckons  to 
ROGERS.]  Come  along,  Alf.  You  kin  'preciate  a 
joke.  Come  on  in  here  till  I  tell  you.  [The  grinning 


DIFF'RENT 

ROGERS  follows  him  mto  the  next  room  where  they 
can  be  Jieard  talking  and  laughing  during  the  follow 
ing  scene.] 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Smiling,  puts  her  arms  around 
EMMA.]  Waal,  Emmer,  what's  this  foolishness  Jack's 
been  tellin'  about 

EMMA — [Resentfully.]  It  ain't  foolishness,  Ma. 
I've  made  up  my  mind,  I  tell  you  that  right  here  and 
now. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [After  a  quick  glance  at  her  face — 
soothingly]  There,  there!  Let's  set  down  and  be 
comfortable.  Me,  I  don't  relish  roostin'  on  my  feet. 
[She  pushes  EMMA  gently  into  a  rocker — then  points 
to  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.]  Set  down, 
Harriet. 

HARRIET — [Torn  between  curiosity  and  a  sense  oj 
being  oi*e  too  many.]  Maybe  I'd  best  go  to  home 
and  leave  you  two  alone? 

MRS.  CROSBY — Shucks, !  <Ain't  you  like  one  o'  the 
family — Caleb's  sister  and  livin5  right  next  door  ever 
since  you  was  all  children  playin'  together.  We  ain't 
got  no  secrets  from  you.  Set  down.  [HARRIET  does 
so  with  an  uncertain  glance  at  the  frozen  EMMA. 
MRS.  CROSBY  has  efficiently  bustled  another  rocker 
beside  her  daughter's  and  sits  down  with  a  comfort 
able  sigh.]  There.  [She  reaches  over  and  takes  one 
of  her  daughter's  hands  m  hers.]  And  now,  Emmer, 
what's  all  this  fuss  over?  [As  EMMA  makes  no  re 
ply]  Jack  says  as  you've  sworn  you  was  breakin' 
with  Caleb.  Is  that  true? 


DIFF'RENT  225 

EMMA — Yes. 

MRS.  CROSBY — Hmm.  Caleb  don't  know  this  yet, 
does  he? 

EMMA — No.  I  asked  Jack  to  tell  him  when  he 
comes  back. 

MRS.  CROSBY — J«~ck  says  he  won't. 

EMMA — Then  I'll  tell  him  myself.  Maybe  that's 
batter,  anyhow.  Caleb'll  know  what  I'm  driving  at 
and  see  my  reason — [Bitterly.] — which  nobody  else 
seems  to. 

MRS.  CROSBY — Hmm.  You  ain't  tried  me  yet. 
[After  a  pause.]  Jack  was  a  dumb  fool  to  tell  you 
'bout  them  goin's-on  at  them  islands  they  teched. 
Ain't  no  good  repeatin'  sech  things. 

EMMA — [Surprised.]  Did  you  know  about  it  be 
fore  Jack 

MRS.  CROSBY — Mercy,  yes.  Your  Pa  heard  it  from 
Jim  Benson  fust  thing  they  landed  here,  and  Pa  told 
me  that  night. 

EMMA — [Resentfully.]     And  you  never  told  me! 

MRS.  CROSBY — Mercy,  no.  Course  I  didn't.  They's 
trouble  chough  in  the  world  without  makin'  more.  If 
you  was  like  most  folks  I'd  told  it  to  you.  Me,  I 
thought  it  was  a  good  joke  on  Caleb. 

EMMA — [With  a  shudder.]     It  ain't  a  joke  to  me. 

MRS.  CROSBY — That's  why  I  kept  my  mouth  shet. 
I  knowed  you  was  touchy  and  diff'rent  from  most. 

EMMA — [Proudly.]  Yes,  I  am  different — and 
that's  just  what  I  thought  Caleb  was,  too — and  he 
ain't. 


226  DIFF'RENT 

HARRIET — [Breaking  in  excitedly.']  Is  it  that 
story  about  Caleb  and  that  heathen  brown  woman 
you're  talking  about?  Is  that  what  you're  mad  at 
Caleb  for,  Emmer? 

MRS.  CROSBY — [As  EMMA  remains  silent.]  Yes, 
Harriet,  that's  it. 

HARRIET — [Astonished.]  Why,  Emmer  Crosby, 
how  can  you  be  so  silly?  You  don't  s'pose  Caleb  took 
it  serious,  do  you,  and  him  makin'  them  fire  shots 
round  her  to  scare  her  back  to  land  and  get  rid  of 
her?  Good  gracious!  [A  bit  resentfully.]  I  hope 
you  ain't  got  it  in  your  head  my  brother  Caleb  would 
sink  so  low  as  to  fall  in  love  serious  with  one  of  them 
critters  ? 

EMMA — [Harshly.]     He  might  just  as  well. 

HARRIET — [Bridling.]  How  can  you  say  sech  a 
thing!  [Sarcastically.]  I  ain't  heard  that  Caleb 
offered  to  marry  her,  have  you?  Then  you  might 

have  some  cause But  d'you  s'pose  he's  ever  give 

her  another  thought?  Not  Caleb!  I  know  him  bet- 
ter'n  that.  He'd  forgot  all  about  the  Lull  thing  be 
fore  they  was  out  o'  sight  of  land,  I'll  bet,  and  if 
them  fools  hadn't  started  this  story  going,  he'd  never 
remembered  it  again. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Nodding.]  That's  jest  it.  Har 
riet's  right,  Emmer. 

EMMA — Ma ! 

MRS.  CROSBY — Besides,  you  don't  know  they  was 
nothin'  wrong  happened.  Nobody  kin  swear  that  for 
sartin.  Ain't  that  so,  Harriet? 


DIFFERENT 

HARRIET — [Hesitating — then  frankly.]  I  don't 
know.  Caleb  ain't  no  plaster  saint  and  I  reckon  he's 
as  likely  to  sin  that  way  as  any  other  man.  He 
wasn't  married  then  and  I  s'pose  he  thought  he  was 
free  to  do  as  he'd  a  mind  to  till  he  was  hitched  up. 
Goodness  sakes,  Emmer,  all  the  men  thinks  that — 
and  a  lot  of  'em  after  they're  married,  too. 

MRS.  CROSBY — Harriet's  right,  Emmer.  If  you've 
been  wide  awake  to  all  that's  happened  in  this  town 
since  you  was  old  enough  to  know,  you'd  ought  to 
realize  what  men  be. 

HARRIET — [Scornfully.]  Emma'd  ought  to  fallen 
in  love  with  a  minister,  not  a  sailor.  As  for  me,  I 
wouldn't  give  a  durn  about  a  man  that  was  too 
goody-goody  to  raise  cain  once  in  a  while — before  he 
married  me,  I  mean.  Why,  look  at  Alf  Rogers, 
Emmer.  I'm  going  to  marry  him  some  day,  ain't  I? 
Bui;  I  know  right  well  all  the  foolin'  he's  done — and 
still  is  doing,  I  expect.  I  ain't  sayin'  I  like  it  but  I 
do  like  him  and  I  got  to  take  him  the  way  he  is,  that's 
all.  If  you're  looking  for  saints,  you  got  to  die  first 
and  go  to  heaven.  A  girl'd  never  git  married  here 
abouts  if  she  expected  too  much. 

MRS.  ROGERS — Harriet's  right,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Resentfully.] — Maybe  she  is,  Ma,  from 
her  side.  I  ain't  claiming  she's  wrong.  Her  and  me 
just  looks  at  things  diff'rent,  that's  all.  And  she 
can't  understand  the  way  I  feel  about  Caleb. 

HARRIET — Well,  there's  one  thing  certain,  Emmer. 


228  DIFF'RENT 

You  won't  find  a  man  in  a  day's  walk  is  any  better'n 
Caleb — or  as  good. 

EMMA — [Wearily.]     I  know  that,  Harriet. 

HARRIET — Then  it's  all  right.  You'll  make  up  with 
him,  and  I  s'pose  I'm  a  fool  to  be  takin'  it  so  serious. 
[As  EMMA  shakes  her  head.]  Oh,  yes,  you  will.  You 
wouldn't  want  to  get  him  all  broke  up,  would  you? 
[As  EMMA  keeps  silent — irritably.]  Story  book  no 
tions,  that's  the  trouble  with  you,  Emmer.  You're 
gettin'  to  think  you're  better'n  the  rest  of  us. 

EMMA — [Vehemently.]     No,  I  don't!     Can't  you 

MRS.  CROSBY — Thar,  now!  Don't  you  two  git  to 
fightin' — to  make  things  worse. 

HARRIET — [Repentantly,  coming  and  putting  her 
arms  around  EMMA  and  kissing  her]  I'm  sorry, 
Emmer.  You  know  I  wouldn't  fall  out  with  you  for 
nothing  or  nobody,  don't  you?  Only  it  gits  me  riled 

to  think  of  how  awful  broke  up  Caleb'd  be  if But 

you'll  make  it  all  up  with  him  when  he  comes,  won't 
you?  [EMMA  stares  stubbornly  before  her.  Before 
she  has  a  chance  to  reply  a  roar  of  laughter  comes 
from  the  next  room  as  JACK  winds  up  his  tale] 

ROGERS — [From  the  next  room]  Gosh,  I  wished 
I'd  been  there!  [He  follows  JACK  into  the  room. 
Both  are  grinning  broadly.  ROGERS  says  teasmgly] 
Reckon  I'll  take  to  whalin*  'stead  o'  fishin'  after  this. 
You  won't  mind,  Harriet?  From  what  I  hears  o' 
them  brown  women,  I'm  missin'  a  hull  lot  by  stay  in*  to 
home. 


DIFFERENT 

HARRIET — [In  a  joking  tone — with  a  meaning 
glance  at  EMMA.]  Go  on,  then!  There's  plenty  of 
fish  in  the  sea.  Anyhow,  I'd  never  git  jealous  of  your 
f  oolin'  with  one  o'  them  heathen  critters.  They  ain't 
worth  notice  from  a  Christian. 

JACK — Oho,  ain't  they!  They're  purty  as  pic 
tures,  Benson  says.  [With  a  wink]  And  mighty 
accommodatin'  in  their  ways.  [He  and  ROGERS  roar 
delightedly.  EMMA  shudders  with  revulsion.] 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Aware  of  her  daughter's  feeling — 
smilingly  but  firmly.]  Get  out  o'  this,  Jack.  You, 
too,  Alf.  Go  on  up  street  if  you  want  to  joke. 
You're  in  my  way. 

JACK — Aw  right,  Ma.     Come  on  up  street,  Alf. 

HARRIET — Wait.  I'll  go  with  you  a  step.  I  got 
to  see  if  Caleb's  got  back  with  them  supper  things. 
[They  all  go  to  the  door  in  rear.  JACK  and  ROGERS 
pass  out,  talking  and  laughing.  HARRIET  turns  m 
the  doorway — sympathetically.]  I'll  give  Caleb  a 
talking  to  before  he  comes  over.  Then  it'll  be  easy 
for  you  to  finish  him.  Treat  him  firm  but  gentle  and 
you'll  see  he  won't  never  do  it  again  in  a  hurry.  After 
all,  he  wasn't  married,  Emmer — and  he's  a  man— 
and  what  can  you  expect?  Good-bye.  [She  goes.] 

EMMA — [Inaudibly]     Good-bye. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [After  a  pause  in  which  she  rocks 
back  and  forth  studying  her  daughter's  face — plac 
idly.]  Harriet's  right,  Emmer.  You  give  him  a 
good  talkin'-to  and  he  won't  do  it  again. 


230  DIFF'RENT 

EMMA — [Coldly.']  I  don't  care  whether  he  does  or 
not.  I  ain't  going  to  marry  him. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Uneasy — persuasively.']  Mercy, 
you  can't  act  like  that,  Emmer.  Here's  the  weddin' 
on'y  two  days  off,  and  everythin'  fixed  up  with  the 
minister,  and  your  Pa  and  Jack  has  bought  new 
clothes  speshul  for  it,  and  I  got  a  new  dress 

EMMA — [Turning  to  her  mother — pleadingly.'] 
You  wouldn't  want  me  to  keep  my  promise  to  Caleb 
if  you  knew  I'd  be  unhappy,  would  you,  Ma? 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Hesitatingly.]  N-no,  Emmer. 
[Then  decisively.]  'Course  I  wouldn't.  It's  because 
I  know  he'll  make  you  happy.  [As  EMMA  shakes  her 
head.]  Shaw,  Emmer,  you  can't  tell  me  you've  got 
over  all  likin'  for  him  jest  'count  o'  this  one  foolish 
ness  o'  hisn. 

EMMA — I  don't  love  him — what  he  is  now.  I  loved 
— what  I  thought  he  was. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [More  and  more  uneasy.]  That's 
all  your  queer  notions,  and  I  don't  know  where  you 
gits  them  from.  Caleb  ain't  changed,  neither  have 
you.  Why,  Emmer,  it'd  be  jest  like  goin'  agen  an 
act  of  Nature  for  you  not  to  marry  him.  Ever  since 
you  was  children  you  been  livin'  side  by  side,  goin' 
round  together,  and  neither  you  nor  him  ever  did 
seem  to  care  for  no  one  else.  Shucks,  Emmer,  you'll 
git  me  to  lose  patience  with  you  if  you  act  that 
stubborn.  You'd  ought  to  remember  all  he's  been  to 
you  and  forget  this  one  little  wrong  he's  done. 

EMMA — I  can't,  Ma.     It  makes  him  another  per- 


DIFFERENT  231 

son — not  Caleb,  but  someone  just  like  all  the  others. 

MRS.  CROSBY — Waal,  is  the  others  so  bad?  Men 
is  men  the  world  over,  I  reckon. 

EMMA — No,  they  ain't  bad.  I  ain't  saying  that. 
Don't  I  like  'em  all?  If  it  was  one  of  the  rest — like 
Jim  Benson  or  Jack,  even — had  done  this  I'd  thought 
it  was  a  joke,  too.  I  ain't  strict  in  judging  'em  and 
you  know  it.  But — can't  you  see,  Ma?— Caleb  al 
ways  seemed  diff'rent — and  I  thought  he  was. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Somewhat  impatiently.'}  Waal,  if 
he  ain't,  he's  a  good  man  jest  the  same,  as  good  as 
any  sensible  girl'd  want  to  marry. 

EMMA — [Slowly.]  I  don't  want  to  marry  nobody 
no  more.  I'll  stay  single. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Tauntingly.]  An  old  maid! 
[Then  resentfully.]  Emmer,  d'you  s'pose  if  I'd  had 
your  high-fangled  notions  o'  what  men  ought  to  \>e 
when  I  was  your  age,  d'you  s'pose  you'd  ever  be  set- 
tin'  there  now? 

EMMA — [Slowly.]  No.  I  know  from  what  I  can 
guess  from  his  own  stories  Pa  never  was  no  saint. 

MRS.  CROSBY — [In  a  tone  of  finality  as  if  this  set 
tled  the  matter]  There,  now!  And  ain't  he  been  as 
good  a  husband  to  me  as  ever  lived,  and  a  good 
father  to  you  and  Jack?  You'll  find  out  Caleb'll  turn 
out  the  same.  You  think  it  over.  [She  gets  up — 
bustlingly]  And  now  I  got  to  git  back  in  the 
kitchen. 

EMMA — [  Wringing  her  hands — desperately.]    Oh, 


DIFF'RENT 

Ma,  why  can't  you  see  what  I  feel?  Of  course,  Pa's 
good — as  good  as  good  can  be 

CAPTAIN  CROSBY — [From  outside  the  door  which 
he  has  approached  without  their  noticing  him — in  a 
jovial  bellow.']  What's  that  'bout  Pa  bein'  good? 
[He  comes  m  laughing.  He  is  a  squat,  bow-legged, 
powerful  man,  almost  as  broad  as  he  is  long — sixty 
yeors  old  but  still  in  the  prime  of  health  and  strength, 
with-  a  great,  red,  weather-beaten  face  seamed  by  sun 
wrinkles.  His  sandy  hair  is  thick  and  dishevelled. 
He  is  dressed  in  an  old  baggy  suit  much  the  worse 
for  wear — striped  cotton  shirt  open  at  the  neck.  He 
pats  EMMA  on  the  back  with  a  playful  touch  that 
almost  jars  her  off  her  feet]  Thunderin'  Moses, 
that's  the  fust  time  ever  I  heerd  good  o'  myself  by 
listenin'!  Most  times  it's:  "Crosby?  D'you  mean 
that  drunken,  good-for-nothin',  mangy  old  cuss?" 
That's  what  I  hears  usual.  Thank  ye,  Emmer. 
[Turning  to  his  wife.]  What  ye  got  to  say  now, 
Ma?  Here's  Emmer  tellin'  you  the  truth  after  you 
hair-pullin'  me  all  these  years  'cause  you  thought  it 
wa'n't.  I  always  told  ye  I  was  good,  ain't  I — good  as 
hell  I  be!  [He  shakes  with  laughter  and  kisses  his 
wife  a  resounding  smack.'] 

Mus,  CROSBY — [Teasing  lovingly.]  Emmer  don't 
know  you  like  I  do. 

CROSBY — [Turning  back  to  EMMA  again.]  Look- 
a-here,  Emmer,  I  jest  seen  Jack.  He  told  me  some 
fool  story  'bout  you  fallin'  out  with  Caleb.  Reckon 
he  was  joshin',  wa'n't  he? 


DIFFERENT  233 

MRS.  CROSBY—  [Quickly.]  Oh,  that's  aU  settled, 
John.  Don't  you  go  stirrin*  it  up  again.  [EMMA 
seems  about  to  speak  but  stops  helplessly  after  one 
glance  at  her  father.}' 

CROSBY — An'  all  'count  o'  that  joke  they're  tellin' 
'bout  him  and  that  brown  female  critter,  Jack  says. 
Hell,  Emmer,  you  ain't  a  real  Crosby  if  you  takes  a 
joke  like  that  serious.  Thunderin'  Moses,  what  the 
hell  d'you  want  Caleb  to  be — a  durned,  he-virgin, 
sky-pilot?  Caleb's  a  man  wo'th  ten  o'  most  and,  spite 
o'  his  bein'  on'y  a  boy  yit,  he's  the  smartest  skipper 
out  o'  this  port  and  you'd  ought  to  be  proud  you'd 
got  him.  And  as  for  them  islands,  all  whalin'  men 
knows  'em.  I've  teched  thar  for  water  more'n  once 
myself,  and  I  know  them  brown  females  like  a  book. 
And  I  tells  you,  after  a  year  or  more  aboard  ship,  a 
man'd  have  to  be  a  goll-durned  geldin'  if  he 
don't 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Glancmg  uneasily  at  EMMA.] 
Ssshh!  You  come  out  in  the  kitchen  with  me,  Pa, 
and  leave  Emmer  be. 

CROSBY — God  A'mighty,  Ma,  I  ain't  sayin'  nothin' 
agen  Emmer,  be  I?  J  knows  Emmer  ain't  that  crazy. 
If  she  ever  got  religion  that  bad,  I'd  ship  her  off  as 
female  missionary  to  the  damned  yellow  Chinks. 
[He  laughs.} 

MRS.  CROSBY — [Taking  his  arm.]  You  come  with 
me.  I  want  to  talk  with  }7ou  'bout  somethin'. 

CROSBY — [Going]  Aye-aye,  skipper!  You're 
boss  aboard  here.  [He  goes  out  right  with  her, 


DIFF'RENT 

laughmg.  EMMA  stands  for  a  while,  staring  stonily 
before  her.  She  sighs  hopelessly,  clasping  and  wv- 
clasping  ~her  hcmds,  looking  around  the  room  as  if 
she  longed  to  escape  from  it.  Finally  she  sits  down 
helplessly  and  remains  fixed  in  a  strained  attitude, 
her  face  betraying  the  conflict  that  is  tormenting 
her.  Slow  steps  sound  from  the  path  in  front  of  the 
house.  EMMA  recognizes  them  and  her  face  freezes 
into  an  expression  of  obstinate  intolerance.  CALEB 
appears  outside  the  screen  door.  He  looks  in,  coughs 
— then  asks  uncertainly.]  It's  me,  Emmer.  Kin  I 
come  in? 

EMMA—  [Coldly.]     Yes. 

CALEB — [Comes  in  and  walks  down  beside  her 
chair.  His  face  is  set  emotionlessly  but  his  eyes  can 
not  conceal  a  worried  bewilderment,  a  look  of  un 
comprehending  hurt.  He  stands  uncomfortably, 
fumbling  with  his  hat,  waiting  for  her  to  speak  or 
look  up.  As  she  does  neither,  he  finally  blurts  out.] 
Kin  I  set  a  spell? 

EMMA — [In  the  same  cold  tone.]  Yes.  [He  low 
ers  himself  carefully  to  a  wooden  posture  on  the  edge 
of  a  rocker  near  hers.] 

CALEB — [After  a  pause.]  I  seen  Jim  Benson.  I 
give  him  hell.  He  won't  tell  no  more  tales,  I  reckon. 
[Another  pause.]  I  stopped  to  home  on  the  way  back 
from  the  store.  I  seen  Harriet.  She  says  Jack'd  told 
you  that  story  they're  all  tellin'  as  a  joke  on  me. 
[Clenching  his  fists — angrily.]  Jack's  a  durn  fool. 
He  needs  a  good  lickin'  from  someone. 


DIFF'RENT  235 

EMMA — [Resentfully.]  Don't  try  to  put  the 
blame  on  Jack.  He  only  told  me  the  truth,  didn't  he? 
[Her  voice  shows  that  she  hopes  against  hope  for  a 
denial.] 

CALEB — [After  a  long  pause — regret f idly.]  Waal, 
I  guess  what  he  told  is  true  enough. 

EMMA— [  Wounded.]     Oh ! 

CALEB — But  that  ain't  no  good  reason  for  tellin' 
it.  Them  sort  o'  things  ought  to  be  kept  among 
men.  [After  a  pause — gropingly.]  I  didn't  want 
nothin'  like  that  to  happen,  Emmer.  I  didn't  mean 
it  to.  I  was  thinkin'  o'  how  you  might  feel — even 
down  there.  That's  why  I  stayed  aboard  all  the 
time  when  the  boys  was  ashore.  I  wouldn't  have 
b'lieved  it  could  happen — not  to  me.  [A  pause.]  I 
wish  you  could  see  them  Islands,  Emmer,  and  be  there 

for  a  time.  Then  you  might  see It's  hard's  hell 

to  explain,  and  you  havin'  never  seen  'em.  Every 
thing  is  diff'rent  down  there — the  weather — and  the 
trees  and  water.  You  git  lookin'  at  it  all,  and  you 
git  to  feel  diff'rent  from  what  you  do  to  home  here. 
It's  purty  hereabouts  sometimes — like  now,  in  spring 
— but  it's  purty  there  all  the  time — and  down  there 
you  notice  it  and  you  git  feelin' — diff'rent.  And 
them  native  women — they're  diff'rent.  A  man  don't 
think  of  'em  as  women — like  you.  But  they're  purty 
• — in  their  fashion — and  at  night  they  sings — and  it's 
all  diff'rent  like  something  you'd  see  in  a  painted 
picture.  [A  pause.]  That  night  when  she  swum 
out  and  got  aboard  when  I  was  alone,  she  caught  me 


236  DIFF'RENT 

by  s'prise.  I  wasn't  expectin'  nothin'  o'  that  sort.  I 
tried  to  make  her  git  back  to  land  at  fust — but  she 
wouldn't  go.  She  couldn't  understand  enough  Eng 
lish  for  me  to  tell  her  how  I  felt — and  I  reckon  she 
wouldn't  have  seed  my  p'int  anyhow,  her  bein'  a  na 
tive.  [A  pause.]  And  then  I  was  afeerd  she'd  catch 
cold  goin'  round  all  naked  and  wet  in  the  moonlight 
— though  it  was  warm — and  I  wanted  to  wrap  a  blan 
ket  round  her.  [He  stops  as  if  he  had  finished.'] 

EMMA — [After  a  long,  tense  pause — dully.']  Then 
you  own  up — there  really  was  something  happened? 

CALEB — [After  a  pause, .]  I  was  sorry  for  it, 
after.  I  locked  myself  in  the  cabin  and  left  her  to 
sleep  out  on  deck. 

EMMA — [After  a  pause — fixedly.']  I  ain't  going 
to  marry  you,  Caleb. 

CALEB — Harriet  said  you'd  said  that ;  but  I  didn't 
b'lieve  you'd  let  a  slip  that  make — such  a  difference. 

EMMA — [With  finality.]  Then  you  can  believe  it 
now,  Caleb. 

CALEB — [After  a  pause]  You  got  queer,  strict 
notions,  Emmer.  A  man'll  never  live  up  to  'em — with 
never  one  slip.  But  you  got  to  act  accordin'  to  your 
lights,  I  expect.  It  sort  o'  busts  everythin'  to  bits 

for  me [His  voice  betrays  his  anguish  for  a 

second  but  he  instantly  regains  his  iron  control.] 
But  o'  course,  if  you  ain't  willin'  to  take  me  the  way 
I  be,  there's  nothin'  to  do.  And  whatever  you  think 
is  best,  suits  me. 

EMMA — [After  a  pause — gropingly. ]     I  wish  I 


DIFF'RENT  237 

could  explain  my  side  of  it — so's  you'd  understand. 
I  ain't  got  any  hard  feelings  against  you,  Caleb — 
not  now.  It  ain't  plain  jealousy — what  I  feel.  It 
ain't  even  that  I  think  you've  done  nothing  terrible 
wrong.  I  think  I  can  understand — how  it  happened 
— and  make  allowances.  I  know  that  most  any  man 
would  do  the  same,  and  I  guess  all  of  'em  I  ever  met 
has  done  it. 

CALEB — [With  a  glimmer  of  eager  hope.]  Then 
— you'll  forgive  it,  Emmer? 

EMMA — Yes,  I  forgive  it.  But  don't  think  that  my 
forgiving  is  going  to  make  any  difference — 'cause  I 
ain't  going  to  marry  you,  Caleb.  That's  final. 
[After  a  pause — intensely. ~\  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  make 
you  see — my  reason.  You  don't.  You  never  will,  I 
expect.  What  you  done  is  just  what  any  other  man 
would  have  done — and  being  like  them  is  exactly 
what'll  keep  you  from  ever  seeing  my  meaning. 
[After  a  pause — in  a  last  effort  to  make  him  un 
derstand.]  Maybe  it's  my  fault  more'n  your'n.  It's 
like  this,  Caleb.  Ever  since  we  was  little  I  guess  I've 
always  had  the  idea  that  you  was — diff'rent.  And 
when  we  growed  up  and  got  engaged  I  thought  that 
more  and  more.  And  you  was  diff'rent,  too!  And 
that  was  why  I  loved  you.  And  now  you've  proved 
you  ain't.  And  so  how  can  I  love  you  any  more?  I 
don't,  Caleb,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  You've 
busted  something  way  down  inside  me — and  I  can't 
love  you  no  more. 

CALEB — [Gloomily.]    I've  warned  you  often,  ain't 


DIFF'RENT 

I,  you  was  settin'  me  up  where  I'd  no  business  to  be. 
I'm  human  like  the  rest  and  always  was.  I  ain't  diff'- 
rent.  [After  a  pause — wncertamLy.]  I  reckon  there 
ain't  no  use  sayin'  nothin'  more.  I'll  go  to  home. 
[He  starts  to  rise.'} 

EMMA — Wait.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  out  of 
here  with  no  hard  feelings.  You  'n'me,  Caleb,  we've 
been  too  close  all  our  lives  to  ever  get  to  be  enemies. 
I  like  you,  Caleb,  same's  I  always  did.  I  want  us  to 
stay  friends.  I  want  you  to  be  like  one  of  the  family 
same's  you've  always  been.  There's  no  reason  you 
can't.  I  don't  blame  you — as  a  man — for  what  I 
wouldn't  hold  against  any  other  man.  If  I  find  I 
can't  love  you — that  way — no  more  or  be  your  wife, 
it's  just  that  I've  decided — things  being  what  they 
be  and  me  being  what  I  am —  I  won't  marry  no  man. 
I'll  stay  single.  [Forcmg  a  smile.]  I  guess  there's 
worse  things  than  being  an  old  maid. 

CALEB — I  can't  picture  you  that,  Emmer.  It's 
natural  in  some  but  it  ain't  in  you.  [Then  with  a  re 
newal  of  hope.']  And  o'  course  I  want  to  stay  frit-rids 
with  you,  Emmer.  There's  no  hard  feelin's  on  my 

side.  You  got  a  right  to  your  own  way — even  if 

[Hopefully.]  And  maybe  if  I  show  you  what  I  done 
wasn't  natural  to  me — by  never  doin'  it  again — may 
be  the  time'll  come  when  you'll  be  willin'  to  for- 
g*t 

EMMA — [Shaking  her  head — slowly.]  It  ain't  a 
question  of  time,  Caleb.  It's  a  question  of  some- 


DIFF'RENT  239 

thing  being  dead.  And  when  a  thing's  died,  time 
can't  make  no  difference. 

CALEB — [Sturdily.]  You  don't  know  that  for 
sure,  Emmer.  You're  human,  too,  and  as  liable  to 
make  mistakes  as  any  other.  Maybe  you  on'y  think 
it's  dead,  and  when  I  come  back  from  the  next  vige 
and  you've  had  two  years  to  think  it  over,  you'll  see 
diff 'rent  and  know  I  ain't  as  bad  as  I  seem  to  ye  now. 

EMMA — [Helplessly.]  But  you  don't  seem  bad, 
Caleb.  And  two  years  can't  make  no  change  in  me — 
that  way. 

CALEB — [Feeling  himself  somehow  more  and  more 
heartened  by  hope.]  I  ain't  givin'  up  hope,  Emmer, 
and  you  can't  make  me.  Not  by  a  hell  of  a  sight. 
[With  emphasis.]  I  ain't  never  goin'  to  marry  no 
woman  but  you,  Emmer.  You  can  trust  my  word  for 
that.  And  I'll  wait  for  ye  to  change  your  mind,  I 
don't  give  a  durn  how  long  it'll  take — till  I'm  sixty 
years  old — thirty  years  if  it's  needful!  [He  rises  to 
his  feet  as  he  is  speaking  this  last.] 

EMMA — [With  a  mournful  smile.]  You  might  just 
as  well  say  for  life,  Caleb.  In  thirty  years  we'll  both 
be  dead  and  gone,  probably.  And  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  it's  needful  for  you  to  stay  single  'cause 
I- 

CALEB — I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  single.  I'm  goin'  to 
wait  for  you.  And  some  day  when  you  realize  men 
was  never  cut  out  for  angels  you'll 

EMMA — [Helplessly.]  Me  'n'  you'll  never  under 
stand  each  other,  Caleb,  so  long  as  we  live.  [Get- 


240  DIFF'RENT 

ting  up  and  holding  out  her  hand.]   Good-bye,  Caleb. 
I'm  going;  up  and  lie  down  for  a  spell. 

CALEB — [Made  hopeless  again  by  her  tone — 
clasps  her  hand  mechanically — dully.]  Good-bye, 
Emmer.  [He  goes  to  the  door  in  the  rear,  opens  it, 
then  hesitates  and  looks  back  at  her  as  she  goes  out 
the  door  on  the  right  without  turning  around.  Sud 
denly  he  blurts  out  despairingly.]  You'll  remember 
what  I  told  ye  'bout  waitin*,  Emmer?  [She  is  gone, 
makes  no  reply.  His  face  sets  in,  its  concealment 
mask  of  emotionlessness  and  he  turns  slowly  and 
goes  out  the  door  as 

[The  Curtam  Falls.] 


ACT  TWO 

SCENE — Thirty  years  after — the  scene  is  the  same 
but  TIO t  the  same.  The  room  has  a  grotesque 
aspect  of  old  age  turned  flighty  and  masquerad 
ing  as  the  most  empty-headed  youth.  There  is 
an  obstreperous  newness  about  everything. 
Orange  curtains  are  at  the  windows.  The  car 
pet  has  given  way  to  a  varnished  hardwood 
floor,  its  glassy  surface  set  off  by  three  small, 
garish-colored  rugs,  placed  with  precision  in 
front  of  the  two  doors  and  under  the  table.  The 
wall  paper  is  now  a  cream  color  sprayed  with 
pmk  flowers.  Eye-aching  seascapes,  of  the 
paint  ed-to-order  quality,  four  in  number,  in 
cased  in  gilded  frames,  are  hung  on  the  walls  at 
mathematically  spaced  intervals.  The  plush- 
covered  chairs  are  gone,  replaced  by  a  set  of 
varnished  oak.  The  horsehair  sofa  lias  been 
relegated  to  the  attic.  A  cane-bottomed  affair 
with  fancy  cushions  serves  in  its  stead.  A  Vic- 
trola  is  where  the  old  mahogany  chest ,  had  been. 
A  brand  mew  piano  shines  resplendently  in  th# 
far  right  corner  by  the  door,  and  a  bookcase 
with  glass  doors  that  pull  up  and  slide  in  flanks 
the  fireplace.  This  bookcase  is  full  of  install- 
241 


DIFF'RENT 

ment-plan  sets  of  uncut  volumes.  TTie  table  at 
center  is  of  varnished  oak.  On  it  are  piles  of 
fashion  magazines  and  an  electric  reading  lamp. 
Only  the  old  Bible,  which  still  preserves  its  place 
of  honor  on  the  table,  and  the  marble  clock  ort 
the  mantel,  have  survived  the  renovation  and 
serve  to  emphasize  it  all  the  more  by  contrast. 

It  is  late  afternoon  of  a  day  in  the  early 
spring  of  the  year  1920. 

As  the  curt  am  rises,  EMMA  and  BENNY 
ROGERS  are  discovered.  She  is  seated  in  a  rocker 
by  the  table.  He  is  standing  by  the  Victrola  on 
which  a  jazz  band  record  is  playing.  He  whis 
tles,  goes  through  the  motions  of  dancing  to 
the  music.  He  is  a  young  fellow  of  twenty-three, 
a  replica  of  his  fathe\r  in  Act  One,  but  coarser, 
more  hardened  and  cocksure.  He  is  dressed  m 
the  khaki  uniform  of  a  private  in  the  United 
States  Army.  The  thirty  years  have  trans 
formed  EMMA  into  a  withered,  scrawny  woman. 
But  there  is  something  revoltingly  incongruous 
about  her,  a  pitiable  sham,  a  too-apparent  ef 
fort  to  cheat  the  years  by  appearances.  The 
white  dress  she  wears  is  too  frilly,  too  youthful 
for  Iwr;  so  are  the  high-heeled  pumps  and 
clocked  silk  stockings.  There  is  an  absurd  sug 
gestion  of  rouge  on  her  tight  cheeks  and  thin 
lips,  of  pencilled  make-up  about  her  eyes.  The 
black  of  her  hair  is  brazenly  untruthful.  Above 
all  there  is  shown  m  her  simpering,  self-consci- 


DIFFERENT 

ously  coquettish  manner  that  laughable — and 
at  the  same  time  irritating  and  disgusting — 
mockery  of  undignified  age  snatching  greedily 
at  the  empty  simulacra  of  youth.  She  resembles 
some  passe  stock  actress  of  fifty  made  up  for  a 
heroine  of  twenty* 

BENNY — [As  the  record  stops — switches  off  the 
machine.]  Oh,  baby!  Some  jazz,  I'll  tell  the  world! 

EMMA — [Smiling  lovingly  at  his  back.]  I'm  glad 
you  like  it.  It's  one  of  them  you  picked  out  on  the 
list. 

BENNY — Oh,  I'm  a  swell  little  picker,  aw  right. 
[Turning  to  her.]  Say,  you're  a  regular  feller — 
get  tin'  them  records  for  me. 

EMMA — [Coquet  tishly.]  Well,  if  that  ain't  just 
like  a  man !  Who  told  you  I  got  them  just  for  you? 

BENNY — Well,  didn't  you? 

EMMA — No  indeedy !  I  only  took  your  advice  on 
what  to  get.  I  knew  you'd  know,  being  growed  to  a 
man  of  the  world  now  since  you  was  overseas.  But  I 
got  'em  because  I  like  them  jazz  tunes  myself.  They 
put  life  and  ginger  in  an  old  lady  like  me — not  like 
them  slow,  old-timey  tunes. 

BENNY — [Bends  over  chair — kiddingly.]  You 
ain't  old.  That's  all  bunk. 

EMMA — [Flattered.]    Now,  now,  Benny! 

BENNY — You  ain't.  You're  a  regular,  up-to-date 
sport — the  only  live  one  in  this  dead  dump.  [With 


244  DIFF'RENT 

a  grin.}  And  if  you  fall  for  that  jazz  stuff,  all  you 
got  to  do  now  is  learn  to  dance  to  it. 

EMMA — [Giggling.]     I  will — if  you'll  teach  me. 

BENNY — [Struggling  with  a  guffaw.]  Oh,  oui! 
Sure  I  will.  We'll  have  a  circus,  me  an*  you.  Say, 
you're  sure  one  of  the  girls  aw  right,  Aunt  Emmer. 

EMMA — Oh,  you  needn't  think  we're  all  so  behind 
the  times  to  home  here  just  because  you've  been  to 
France  and  all  over. 

BENNY — You  ain't,  I'll  say,  Aunt  Emmer. 

EMMA — And  how  often  have  I  got  to  tell  you  not 
to  call  me  Aunt  Emmer? 

BENNY — [With  a  grin.]  Oh,  oui!  My  foot 
slipped.  'Scuse  me,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Delighted  by  his  coarse  familiarity.] 
That's  better.  Why,  you  know  well  enough  I  ain't 
your  aunt  anyway. 

BENNY — I  got  to  get  used  to  the  plain  Emmer. 
They  taught  me  to  call  you  "aunt"  when  I  was  a 
kid.  [EMMA  looks  displeased  at  this  remark  and 
BENNY  hastens  to  add  cajolmgly.]  And  you  almost 
was  my  aunt-in-law  one  time  from  what  I've  heard. 
[Winks  at  her  cunningly.] 

EMMA — [Flustered.]  That  was  ages  ago. 
[Catching  herself  quickly.]  Not  so  awful  long 
really,  but  it's  all  so  dead  and  gone  it  seems  a  long 
while. 

BENNY — [Unthinkingly.]  It  was  before  I  was 
born,  wasn't  it?  [Seeing  her  expression  lie  hurries 
on.]  Well,  that  ain't  so  darned  long.  Say,  here's 


DIFFERENT  £45 

something  I  never  could  make  out — how  did  you  ever 
come  to  fall  for  Uncle  Caleb? 

EMMA — [Bridling — quickly.]  I  never  did.  That's 
all  talk,  Benny.  We  was  good  friends  and  still  are. 
I  was  young  and  foolish  and  got  engaged  to  him — 
and  then  discovered  I  didn't  like  him  that  way. 
That's  all  there  ever  was  to  it. 

BENNY — [Resentfully.]  I  can't  figure  how  any- 
body'd  ever  like  him  anyway.  He's  a  darn  stingy, 
ugly  old  cuss,  if  you  want  my  dope  on  him.  I  can't 
see  him  at  all.  I've  hated  him  ever  since  Pa  died  and 
Ma  and  me  had  to  go  live  next  door  with  him. 

EMMA — You  oughtn't  to  say  that.  He's  kind 
at  bottom,  spite  of  his  rough  ways,  and  he's  brought 
you  up. 

BENNY — [Grumpily.]  Dragged  me  up,  you  mean, 
[  With  a  calculating  look  at  her  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes.]  He's  a  tight-wad  and  I  hate  folks  that're 
tight  with  their  coin.  Spend  and  be  a  good  sport, 
that's  my  motto.  [Flattermg.]  He'd  ought  to  be 
more  like  you  that  way,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Pleased — condescendingly]  Your  Uncle* 
Caleb's  an  old  man,  remember.  He's  sot  in  his  ways 
and  believes  in  being  strict  with  you — too  strict, 
I've  told  him. 

BENNY — He's  got  piles  of  money  hoarded  in  the 
bank  but  he's  too  mean  even  to  retire  from  whalin' 
himself — goes  right  on  makin'  vige  after  vige  to  grab 
more  and  never  spends  a  nickel  less'n  he  has  to.  It 
was  always  like  pryin'  open  a  safe  for  me  to  separate 


246  DIFFRENT 

him  from  a  cent.  [With  extreme  disgust. ~\  Aw, 
he's  a  piker.  I  hate  him  and  I  always  did! 

EMMA — [Looking  toward  the  door  apprehenr 
sively.]  Ssshh ! 

BENNY — What  you  scared  of?  He  don't  get  in 
from  New  Bedford  till  the  night  train  and  even  if 
he's  got  to  the  house  by  this  he'll  be  busy  as  a  bird 
dog  for  an  hour  getting  himself  dolled  up  to  pay 
you  a  call. 

EMMA — [Perfunctorily.]  I  hope  he's  had  a  good 
vige  and  is  in  good  health. 

BENNY — [Roughly.]  You  needn't  worry.  He's 
too  mean  ever  to  get  real  sick.  Gosh,  I  wish  Pa'd 
lived — or  Uncle  Jack.  They  wasn't  like  him.  I  was 
only  a  kid  when  they  got  drowned,  but  I  remember 
enough  about  'em  to  know  they  was  good  sports. 
Wasn't  they? 

EMMA — [Rather  primly.']  They  was  too  sporty 
for  their  own  good. 

BENNY — Don't  you  hand  me  that.  That  don't 
sound  like  you.  You're  a  sport  yourself.  [After 
a  pause.]  Say,  it's  nutty  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it — Uncle  Caleb  livin'  next  door  all  these  years 
and  comin'  to  call  all  the  time  when  he  ain't  at  sea. 

EMMA— What's  funny  about  that  ?  We've  always 
been  good  friends. 

BENNY — [With  a  grm.]  It's  just  as  if  the  old 
guy  was  still  mashin'  you.  And  I'll  bet  anything 
he's  as  stuck  on  you  as  he  ever  was — the  old  fool ! 

EMMA — [With  a  coquettish  titter.]     Land  sakes, 


DIFF'RENT  247 

Benny,  a  body'd  think  you  were  actually  jealous  of 
your  uncle  the  way  you  go  on. 

BENNY — [With  a  mocking  laugh.']  Jealous  !  Oh, 
oui!  Sure  I  am!  Kin  you  blame  me?  [Then  seri 
ously,  with  a  calculating  look  at  her.}  No,  all 
kiddin'  aside,  I  know  he'll  run  me  down  first  second 
he  sees  you.  Ma'll  tell  him  all  her  tales,  and  he'll  be 
sore  at  me  right  off.  He's  always  hated  me  anyway. 
He  was  glad  when  I  enlisted,  'cause  that  got  him  rid 
of  me.  All  he  was  hopin'  was  that  some  German'd 
get  me  for  keeps.  Then  when  I  come  back  he 
wouldn't  do  nothin'  for  me  so  I  enlisted  again. 

EMMA — [Chiding  —  playfully.]  Now,  Benny! 
Didn't  you  tell  me  you  enlisted  again  'cause  you  were 
sick  o'  this  small  place  and  wanted  to  be  out  where 
there  was  more  fun? 

BENNY — Well,  o'  course  it  was  that,  too.  But  I 
could  have  a  swell  time  even  in  this  dump  if  he'd 
loosen  up  a'nd  give  me  some  kale.  [Again  with  the 
calculating  look  at  her.]  Why,  look  here,  right  now 
there's  a  buddy  of  mine  wants  me  to  meet  him  in 
Boston  and  he'll  show  me  a  good  time,  and  if  I  had 
a  hundred  dollars 

EMMA — A  hundred  dollars !  That's  an  awful  pile 
to  spend,  Benny. 

BENNY — [Disgustedly.]  Now  you're  talkin'  tight 
like  him. 

EMMA — [Hastily]  Oh,  no,  Benny.  You  know 
better'n  that.  What  was  you  sayin' — if  you  had  a 
hundred  dollars ? 


248  DIFFERENT 

BENNY — That  ain't  such  a  much  these  days  with 
everything  gone  up  so.  If  I  went  to  Boston  I'd 
have  to  get  dolled  up  and  everything.  And  this 
buddy  of  mine  is  a  sport  and  a  spender.  Easy  come, 
easy  go  is  his  motto.  His  folks  ain't  tight  wads  like 
mine.  And  I  couldn't  show  myself  up  as  a  cheap 
skate  by  travellin'  'round  with  him  without  a  nickel 
in  my  jeans  and  just  spongin'  on  him.  {With  the 
calctdatmg  glance  to  see  what  effect  his  words  are 
having — pretending  to  dismiss  the  subject.']  But 
what's  the  good  of  talkin'?  I  got  a  swell  chance 
tellin'  that  to  Uncle  Caleb.  He'd  give  me  one  look 
and  then  put  a  double  padlock  on  his  roll.  But  it 
ain't  fair  just  the  same.  Here  I'm  sweatin'  blood 
in  the  army  after  riskin'  my  life  in  France  and 
when  I  get  a  leave  to  home,  everyone  treats  me  like 
a  wet  dog. 

EMMA — [Softly.]     Do  you  mean  me,  too,  Benny? 

BENNY — No,  not  you.  You're  diff'rent  from  the 
rest.  You're  regular — and  you  ain't  any  of  my 
real  folks  either,  and  ain't  got  any  reason. 

EMMA — [Coquet tishly.~\  Oh,  yes,  I  have  a  reason. 
I  like  you  very,  very  much,  Benny — better  than  any 
one  in  the  town — especially  since  you've  been  to 
home  these  last  few  times  and  come  to  call  so  often 
and  I  feel  I've  growed  to  know  you.  When  you  first 
came  back  from  France  I  never  would  have  recog 
nized  you  as  Harriet's  Benny,  you  was  so  big  and 
strong  and  handsome. 

BENNY — [Uncomfortably.]     Aw,  you're  kiddin'. 


DIFF'RENT 

But  you  can  tell  how  good  I  think  you  are  from  me 
bein'  over  here  so  much — so  you  know  I  ain't  lyin'. 
[Made  more  and  more  uncomfortable  by  the  ardent 
looks  Emma  is  casting  at  him.]  Well,  guess  I'll  be 
movin'  along. 

EMMA — [Pleadingly.]  Oh,  you  mustn't  go  yet! 
Just  when  we're  gettin'  so  friendly! 

BENNY — Uncle  Caleb'll  be  over  soon  and  I  don't 
want  him  to  catch  me  here — nor  nowhere  else  till  he 
gets  calmed  down  after  hearin'  Ma's  kicks  about  me. 
So  I  guess  I  better  beat  it  up  street. 

EMMA — He  won't  come  for  a  long  time  yet.  I 
know  when  to  expect  him.  [Pleading  ardently  and 
kittenishly.]  Do  set  down  a  spell,  Benny!  Land 
sakes,  I  hardly  get  a  sight  of  you  before  you  want 
to  run  away  again.  I'll  begin  to  think  you're  only 
pretending  to  like  me. 

BENNY — [Seemg  his  calculations  demand  it.~\  Aw 
right — jest  for  a  second.  [He  looks  about  him, 
seeking  a  neutral  subject  for  conversation.]  Gee, 
you've  had  this  old  place  fixed  up  swell  since  I  was 
to  home  last. 

EMMA — [Coquet tishly.]  Guess  who  I  had  it  all 
done  for,  mostly? 

BENNY — For  yourself,  of  course. 

EMMA — [Shaking  her  head  rougishly.]  No,  not 
for  me,  not  for  me !  Not  that  I  don't  like  it  but  I'd 
never  have  gone  to  the  trouble  and  expense  for  my 
self.  [With  a  sigh.]  I  s'pose  poor  Ma  and  Pa 
turned  over  in  their  graves  when  I  ordered  it  done. 


250  DIFF'RENT 

BENNY — [With  a  sly  grin.]  Who  d'you  have  it 
done  for,  then? 

EMMA — For  you!  Yes,  for  you,  Benny — so's 
you'd  have  a  nice,  up-to-date  place  to  came  to  when 
you  was  on  vacation  from  the  horrid  old  army. 

BENNY — [Embarrassed.]  Well,  it's  great  aw 
right.  And  it  sure  looks  swell — nothing  cheap 
about  it. 

EMMA — [Delighted.]  As  long  as  you  like  it,  I'm 
satisfied.  [Then  suddenly,  wagging  an  admonishing 
finger  at  him  and  hiding  beneath  a  joking  manner 
an  undercurrent  of  uneasiness.]  I  was  forgetting  I 
got  a  bone  to  pick  with  you,  young  man!  I  heard 
them  sayin'  to  the  store  that  you'd  been  up  callin' 
on  that  Tilly  Small  evenin'  before  last. 

BENNY — [With  a  lady-killer's  carelessness.]  Aw, 
I  was  passin'  by  and  she  called  me  in,  that's  all. 

EMMA — [Frowning.]  They  said  you  had  the 
piano  goin'  and  was  singing  and  no  end  of  high 
jinks. 

BENNY — Aw,  these  small  town  boobs  think  you're 
raising  hell  if  you're  up  after  eleven. 

EMMA — [Excitedly.]  I  ain't  blamin'  you.  But 
her — she  ought  to  have  better  sense — at  her  age, 
too,  when  she's  old  enough  to  be  your  mother. 

BENNY — Aw,  say,  she  ain't  half  as  old 

[Catching  himself.]  Oh,  she's  an  old  fool,  you're 
right  there,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Severely.]     And  I  hope  you  know  the 


DIFF'RENT  251 

kind  of  woman  she  is  and  has  been  since  she  was  a 
girl. 

BENNY — [With  a  wink.]  I  wasn't  born  yester 
day.  I  got  her  number  long  ago.  I  ain't  in  my 
cradle,  get  me!  I'm  in  the  army?  Oui!  [Chuckles.] 

EMMA — [Fidgetting  nervously.']  What'd  you — 
what'd  you  do  when  you  was  there? 

BENNY — Why,  nothin'.  I  told  her  to  cut  the 
rough  work  and  behave — and  a  nice  time  was  had 
by  all.  [He  grins  provokingly.] 

EMMA — [Springs  to  her  feet  nervously.]  I  don't 
know  what  to  think — when  you  act  so  queer  about  it. 

BENNY — [Carelessly.]  Well,  don't  think  nothing 
wrong — 'cause  there  wasn't.  Bill  Tinker  was  with 
me  and  we  was  both  wishin'  we  had  a  drink.  And 
Bill  says,  "Let's  go  see  Tilly  Small.  She  always 
has  some  buried  and  if  we  hand  her  a  line  of  talk 
maybe  she'll  drag  out  the  old  bottle."  So  we  did — 
and  she  did.  We  kidded  her  for  a  couple  of  drinks. 
[He  snickers.] 

EMMA — [Standing  in  front  of  him — ftdgetting.] 
I  want  you  to  promise  you  won't  go  to  see  her  no 
more.  If  you — if  you  want  liquor  now  and  again 
maybe  I — maybe  I  can  fix  it  so's  I  can  get  some 
to  keep  here  for  you. 

BENNY—  [Eagerly.]  Say,  that'd  be  great !  Will 
you?  [She  nods.  He  goes  on  carelessly.]  And 
sure  I'll  promise  not  to  see  Tilly  no  more.  Gosh, 
what  do  you  think  I  care  about  her?  Or  about 
dame  in  this  town,  for  that  matter — 'ceptin' 


DIFF'RENT 

you.  These  small  town  skirts  don't  hand  me  nothin'. 
[With  a  grm.]  You  forgot  I  was  in  France — and 
after  the  dames  over  there  these  birds  here  look 
some  punk. 

EMMA — [Sits  down — wetting  her  lips.]  And 
what — what  are  those  French  critters  like? 

BENNY — [With  a  wink.]  Oh,  boy!  They're  some 
pippins !  It  ain't  so  much  that  they're  better  lookin' 
as  that  they've  got  a  way  with  'em — lots  of  ways. 
[He  laughs  with  a  lascivious  smirk.] 

EMMA — [Unconsciously  hitches  her  chair  nearer 
his.  The  turn  the  conversation  has  taken  seems  to 
Have  aroused  a  hectic,  morbid  intensity  in  her.  She 
continually  wets  her  lips  and  pushes  back  her  hair 
from  her  flushed  face  as  if  it  were  stifling  her.~\ 
What  do  you  mean,  Benny?  What  kind  of  ways 
have  they  got — them  French  girls? 

BENNY — [Smirking  mysteriously.]  Oh,  ways  of 
dressin'  and  doin'  their  hair — and  lots  of  ways. 

EMMA — [Eagerly.]  Tell  me !  Tell  me  all  about 
'em.  You  needn't  be  scared — to  talk  open  with  me. 
I  ain't  as  strict  as  I  seem — about  hearin'  things. 
Tell  me!  IVe  heard  French  girls  was  awful  wicked. 

BENNY — I  don't  know  about  wicked,  but  they're 
darned  good  sports.  They'd  do  anything  a  guy'd 
ask  'em.  Oui,  tooty  sweet!  [Laughs  foolishly.] 

EMMA — And  what — what'd  you  ask  'em,  for  in 
stance? 

BENNY — [With  a  wink.]  Curiosity  killed  a  cat! 
Ask  me  no  questions  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies. 


DIFFRENT  £53 

EMMA — [With  queer,  stupid  insistence.]  But 
won't  you  tell  me?  Go  on! 

BENNY — Can't  be  did,  Aunt  Emmer,  can't  be 
did!  [With  a  siUy  laugh.]  You're  too  young.  No, 
all  I'll  say  is,  that  to  the  boys  who've  knocked 
around  over  there  the  girls  in  town  here  are  just 
rank  amatoors.  They  don't  know  how  to  love  and 
that's  a  fact.  [He  gets  to  his  feet.]  And  as  for 
an  old  bum  like  Tilly — not  me!  Well,  I  guess  I'll 
hike  along 

EMMA — [Getting  up  and  putting  a  Jiand  on  his 
arm — feverishly.]  No,  don't  go.  Not  yet — not  yet. 
No,  don't  go. 

BENNY — -[Stepping  away  with  an  expression  of 
repulsion.]  Why  not?  What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Aunt  Emmer?  You  look  'sif  you  was  gettin'  sick. 
[Before  she  can  reply,  HARRIET'S  voice  is  heard  call 
ing.] 

HARRIET — Benny!  Benny!  [This  acts  like  a 
pail  of  cold  water  on  EMMA  who  moves  away  from 
BENNY  quickly.] 

EMMA — That's  Harriet.  It's  your  Ma  calling, 
Benny. 

BENNY — [Impatiently.]  I  know.  That  means 
Uncle  Caleb  has  come  and  she's  told  him  her  stories 
and  it's  up  to  me  to  go  catch  hell.  [Stoppmg 
EMMA  as  she  goes  toward  the  door  as  if  to  answer 
HARRIET'S  haU.]  Don't  answer,  Aunt  Emmer.  Let 
her  come  over  here  to  look.  I  want  to  speak  to  her 
and  find  out  how  I  stand  before  he  sees  me. 


254.  DIFF'RENT 

EMSMA — [Doubtfully .]  I  don't  know  as  she'll 
come.  She's  been  actin'  funny  to  me  lately,  Har 
riet  has,  and  she  ain't  put  her  foot  in  my  door  the 
last  month. 

BENNY — [As  his  mother's  voice  is  heard  much 
nearer,  calling  "Benny!"]  There !  Sure  she's 
comin*. 

EMMA — [Flustered.]  Land  sakes,  I  can't  let  her 
see  me  this  way.  I  got  to  run  upstairs  and  tidy  my 
self  a  little.  [She  starts  for  the  door  at  right.] 

BENNY — [Flatteringly.]  Aw,  you  look  swell. 
Them  new  duds  you  got  looks  great. 

EMMA — [Turning  in  the  doorway — coquet tishly.] 
Oh,  them  French  girls  ain't  the  only  ones  knows  how 
to  fix  up.  [She  flounces  out.  BENNY  stands  looking 
after  her  with  a  derisive  grm  of  contempt.  There 
is  a  sharp  knock  on  the  door  in  the  rear.  BENNY 
goes  to  open  it,  his  expression  turning  surly  and 
sullen.  HARRIET  enters.  She  wears  an  apron  over  her 
old-fashioned  black  dress  with  a  brooch  at  the  neck. 
Her  hair  is  gray,  her  face  thin,  lined,  and  careworn, 
with  a  fretful,  continuously  irritated  expression. 
Her  shoulders  stoop,  and  her  -figure  is  flabby  and 
ugly.  She  stares  at  her  son  with  resentful  annoy 
ance.] 

HARRIET — Ain't  you  got  sense  enough,  you  big 
lump,  to  answer  me  when  I  call,  and  not  have  me 
shouting  my  lungs  out? 

BENNY — I  never  heard  you  callin'. 

HARRIET — You're  "lyin*  and  you  know  it.     [Then 


DIFFERENT  255 

severely.]  Your  uncle's  to  home.  He's  waitin'  to 
talk  to  you. 

BENNY — Let  him  wait.  [In  a  snarling  tone.]  I 
s'pose  you've  been  givin'  him  an  earful  of  lies  about 
me? 

HARRIET — I  told  him  the  truth,  if  that's  what  you 
mean.  How  you  stole  the  money  out  of  the  bureau 
drawer 

BENNY — [Alarmed  but  pretending  scorn.]  Aw, 
you  don't  know  it  was  me.  You  don't  know  nothin' 
about  it. 

HARRIET — [Ignormg  this.]  And  about  your  dis- 
gracin'  him  and  me  with  your  drunken  carryin's-on 
with  that  harlot,  Tilly  Small,  night  after  night. 

BENNY — Aw,  wha'd  you  know  about  that? 

HARRIET — And  last  but  not  least,  the  sneakin' 
way  you're  makin'  a  silly  fool  out  of  poor  Emmer 
Crosby. 

BENNY — [With  a  grin]  You  don't  notice  her 
kickin'  about  it,  do  you?  [Brusquely]  Why  don't 
you  mind  your  own  business,  Ma? 

HARRIET — [Violently]  It's  a  shame,  that's  what 
it  is !  That  I  should  live  to  see  the  day  when  a  son 
of  mine'd  descend  so  low  he'd  tease  an  old  woman 
to  get  money  out  of  her,  and  her  alone  in  the  world. 
Oh,  you're  low,  you're  low  all  through  like  your  Pa 
was — and  since  you  been  in  the  army  you  got  bold 
so  you  ain't  even  ashamed  of  your  dirtiness  no 
more! 

BENNY — [In  a  snarling  whisper]     That's  right  I 


256  DIFF'RENT 

Blame  it  all  on  me.  I  s'pose  she  ain't  got  nothin'  to 
do  with  it.  [With  a  wink.]  You  oughter  see  her 
perform  sometimes.  You'd  get  wise  to  something 
then. 

HARRIET — Shut  up!  You've  got  the  same  filthy 
mind  your  Pa  had.  As  for  Emmer,  I  don't  hold  her 
responsible.  She's  been  gettin'  flighty  the  past  two 
years.  She  couldn't  help  it,  livin'  alone  the  way 
she  does,  shut  up  in  this  house  all  her  life.  You 
ought  to  be  'shamed  to  take  advantage  of  her  con 
dition — but  shame  ain't  in  you. 

BENNY — Aw,  give  us  a  rest! 

HARRIET — [Angrily.']  Your  Uncle  Caleb'll  give 
you  a  rest  when  he  sees  you!  Him  and  me's  agreed 
not  to  give  you  another  single  penny  if  you  was  to 
get  down  on  your  knees  for  it.  So  there !  You  can 
git  along  on  your  army  pay  from  this  out. 

BENNY — [Worried  by  the  finality  in  her  tone — 
placatingly.]  Aw,  say,  Ma,  what's  eatin'  you? 
What've  I  done  that's  so  bad?  Gosh,  you  oughta 
know  some  of  the  gang  I  know  in  the  army.  You'd 
think  I  was  a  saint  if  you  did.  [Trying  a  confiden 
tial  tone.]  Honest,  Ma,  this  here  thing  with  Aunt 
Emmer  ain't  my  fault.  How  can  I  help  it  if  she 
goes  bugs  in  her  old  age  and  gets  nutty  about  me? 
[With  a  sly  grin — in  a  whisper. ~\  Gee,  Ma,  you 
oughter  see  her  to-day.  She's  a  scream,  honest! 
She's  upstairs  now  gettin'  calmed  down.  She  was 
gettin'  crazy  when  you're  callin*  stopped  her.  Wait 
till  she  comes  down  and  you  git  a  look!  She'll  put 


DIFF'RENT  257 

your  eye  out — all  dolled  up  like  a  kid  of  sixteen  and 
enough  paint  on  her  mush  for  a  Buffalo  Bill  In 
dian 

HARRIET — [Staring  at  him  with  stern  condemna 
tion.}  You're  a  worthless  loafer,  Benny  Rogers, 
same  as  your  Pa  was. 

BENNY — [Frustrated  and  furious .]  Aw,  g'wan 
with  that  bunk !  [He  turns  away  from  herJ\ 

HARRIET — And  I'm  goin'  to  tell  Emma  about  you 
and  try  to  put  some  sense  back  into  her  head. 

BENNY — Go  ahead.  You'll  get  fat  runnin'  me 
down  to  her! 

HARRIET — And  if  my  word  don't  have  no  influ 
ence,  I'll  tell  your  Uncle  Caleb  everything,  and  get 
him  to  talk  to  her.  She'll  mind  him. 

BENNY — [Defiantly.]     You  just  try  it,  that's  all! 

HARRIET — I've  been  scared  to  do  more'n  hint 
about  it  to  him.  I'm  hopin'  any  day  Emma'll  come 
out  of  this  foolishness,  and  he'll  never  know. 

BENNY — Aw ! 

HARRIET — If  shame  was  in  you,  you'd  remember 
your  Uncle  Caleb's  been  in  love  with  Emma  all  his 
life  and  waited  for  her  year  after  year  hopin'  in 
the  end  she'd  change  her  mind  and  marry  him.  And 
she  will,  too,  I  believe,  if  she  comes  out  of  this  fit 
in  her  sane  mind — which  she  won't  if  you  keep  fus- 
sin'  with  her. 

BENNY — [With  revengeful  triumph.']  She'll  never 
marry  the  old  cuss — I'll  fix  that! 

"HARRIET — Now   you're   showin'   yourself   up   for 


258  DIFF'RENT 

what  you  are!  And  I  kin  see  it's  come  to  the  p'int 
where  I  got  to  tell  your  Uncle  Caleb  everythin'  no 
matter  how  it  breaks  him  up.  I  got  to  do  it  for 
Emmer's  sake  as  well  as  his'n.  We  got  to  get  her 
cured  of  your  bad  influence  once  and  for  all.  It's 
the  only  hope  for  the  two  of  'em. 

BENNY — You  just  try  it ! 

HARRIET — And  as  for  you,  you  get  back  to  the 
army  where  you  b'long!  And  don't  never  expect 
another  cent  from  me  or  Caleb  'cause  you  won't  get 
it !  And  don't  never  come  to  see  us  again  till  you've 
got  rid  of  the  meanness  and  filth  that's  the  Rogers 
part  of  you  and  found  the  honesty  and  decency 
that's  the  Williams  part — if  you  got  any  of  me  in 
you  at  all,  which  I  begin  to  doubt.  [Goes  to  the 
door  in  rear.]  And  now  I'm  goin'  back  to  Caleb — 
and  you  better  not  let  him  find  you  here  when  he 
comes  less'n  you  want  a  good  hidin'  for  once  in  your 
life.  [She  goes  out.] 

BENNY — [Stammering  between  fear  and  rage — 
shouting  after  her.]  G'wan!  Tell  him!  What  the 
hell  do  I  care?  I'll  fix  him!  I'll  spill  the  beans 
for  both  of  you,  if  you  try  to  gum  me !  [He  stands 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  hesitating  whether  to  run 
away  or  stay,  concentrating  his  thoughts  on  finding 
some  way  to  make  good  his  bluff.  Suddenly  his  face 
lights  up  with  a  cruel  grin  and  he  mutters  to  himself 
with  savage  satisfaction.]  By  God,  that's  it!  I'll 
bet  I  kin  work  it,  too !  By  God,  that'll  fix  'em !  [He 


DIFFERENT  259 

chuckles  and  goes  quickly  to  the  door  on  right  and 
calls  up  to  the  floor  above.]  Emmer!  Emmer! 

EMMA — [Her  voice  faintly  heard  answering.] 
Yes,  Benny,  I'm  coming. 

BENNY — [He  calls  quickly]  Come  down!  Come 
down  quick !  [He  comes  back  to  the  center  of  the 
room  where  he  stands  waiting,  planning  his  course 
of  action.] 

EMMA — [Appears  in  the  doorway.  Her  face  is 
profusely  powdered — with  nervous  excitement.] 
Benny!  What's  the  matter?  You  sounded  so — why 
where's  your  Ma? 

BENNY — Gone.     Gone  back  to  home. 

EMMA — [Offendedly.]  Without  waiting  to  see 
me?  Why,  I  only  sat  down  for  a  minute  to  give  you 
a  chance  to  talk  to  her.  I  was  coming  right  down. 
Didn't  she  want  to  see  me?  Whatever 's  got  into 
Harriet  lately? 

BENNY — She's  mad  as  thunder  at  you  'cau?ie  I 
come  over  here  so  much  'stead  of  stayin'  to  home 
with  her. 

EMMA—  [Pleased.]  Oh,  is  that  why?  Well,  if 
she  ain't  peculiar!  [She  sits  in  a  rocker  by  the 
table.] 

BENNY — [With  a  great  pretence  of  grief,  taking 
one  of  her  hands  in  his.]  Say,  Emmer — what  I 
called  you  down  for  was —  I  want  to  say  good-bye 
and  thank  you  for  all  you've  done 

EMMA — [F  rightenedly .]  Good-bye?  How  you 
say  that!  What ? 


260  DIFF'RENT 

BENNY— Good-bye  for  good  this  time. 

EMMA — For  good? 

BENNY — Yep.  I've  got  to  beat  it.  I  ain't  got  no 
home  here  no  more.  Mia  and  Uncle  Caleb,  they've 
chucked  me  out. 

EMMA — Good  gracious,  what're  you  saying? 

BENNY — That's  what  Ma  come  over  to  tell  me — 
that  Uncle  Caleb'd  said  I'd  never  get  another  cent 
from  him,  alive  or  after  he's  dead,  and  she  said  for 
me  to  git  back  to  the  army  and  never  to  come  home 
again. 

EMMA — [Gasping.]  She  was  only  joking.  She 
— they  couldn't  mean  it. 

BENNY — If  you'd  heard  her  you  wouldn't  think 
she  was  joking. 

EMMA — [As  he  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  go 
away.]  Benny!  You  can't  go!  Go,  and  me  never 
see  you  again,  maybe !  You  can't !  I  won't  have  it ! 

BENNY — I  got  to,  Emmer.  What  else  is  there  for 
me  to  do  when  they've  thro  wed  me  out  ?  I  don't  give 
a  damn  about  leaving  them — but  I  hate  to  leave 
you  and  never  see  you  again. 

EMMA — [Excitedly — grabbing  his  arm."]  You 
can't!  I  won't  let  you  go! 

BENNY — I  don't  want  to — but  what  can  I  do? 

EMMA — You  can  stay  here  with  me. 

BENNY — [His  eyes  gleaming  with  satisfaction.] 
No,  I  couldn't.  You  know  this  dump  of  a  town. 
Folks  would  be  sayin'  all  sorts  of  had  things  in  no 
time.  I  don't  care  for  myself.  They're  all  down 


DIFF'RENT  261 

on  me  anyway  because  I'm  difPrent  from  small-town 
boobs  like  them  and  they  hate  me  for  it. 

EMMA — Yes,  you  are  different.  And  I'll  show  'em 
I'm  diff'rent,  too.  You  can  stay  with  me — and  let 
'em  gossip  all  they've  a  mind  to ! 

BENNY — No,  it  wouldn't  be  actin'  square  with 
you.  I  got  to  go.  And  I'll  try  to  save  up  my  pay 
and  send  you  back  what  I've  borrowed  now  and 
again. 

EMMA — [More  and  more  wrought  up.~]  I  won't 
hear  of  no  such  thing.  Oh,  I  can't  understand  your 
Ma  and  your  Uncle  Caleb  bein'  so  cruel ! 

BENNY — Folks  have  been  lyin'  to  her  about  me, 
like  I  told  you,  and  she's  told  him.  He's  only  too 
glad  to  believe  it,  too,  long  as  it's  bad. 

EMMA — I  can  talk  to  your  Uncle  Caleb.  He's  al 
ways  minded  me  more'n  her. 

BENNY — [Hastily.]  Don't  do  that,  for  God's 
sake!  You'd  only  make  it  worse  and  get  yourself 
in  Dutch  with  him,  too ! 

EMMA — [Bewilder edly.~\     But — I — don't  see 

BENNY — [Roughly.]  Well,  he's  still  stuck  on 
you,  am't  he? 

EMMA — [With  a  flash  of  coquetry.]   Now,  Benny ! 

BENNY — I  ain't  kiddin'.  This  is  dead  serious. 
He's  stuck  on  you  and  you  know  it. 

EMMA — [Coyly.]  I  haven't  given  him  the  slight 
est  reason  to  hope  in  thirty  years. 

BENNY — Well,  he  hopes  just  the  same.  Sure  he 
does !  Why  Ma  said  when  she  was  here  just  now 


262  DIFF'RENT 

she'd  bet  you  and  him'd  be  married  some  day  yet. 

EMMA — No  such  thing !    Why,  she  must  be  crazy ! 

BENNY — Oh,  she  ain't  so  crazy.  Ain't  he  spent 
every  durn  evenin'  of  the  time  he's  to  home  between 
trips  over  here  with  you — for  the  last  thirty  years? 

EMMA — When  I  broke  my  engagement  I  said  I 
wanted  to  stay  friends  like  we'd  been  before,  and  we 
always  have;  but  every  time  he'd  even  hint  at  bein* 
engaged  again  I'd  always  tell  him  we  was  friends 
only  and  he'd  better  leave  it  be  that  way.  There's 
never  been  nothing  else  between  us.  [With  a  coy 
smile.'}  And  besides,  Benny,  you  know  how  little 
time  he's  had  to  home  between  viges. 

BENNY — I  kin  remember  the  old  cuss  marchin' 
over  here  every  evenin'  he  was  to  home  since  I  was  a 
kid. 

EMMA — [With  a  titter  of  delight. ]  D'you  know, 
Benny,  I  do  actually  believe  you're  jealous! 

BENNY — [Loudly — to  lend  conviction.]  Sure  I'm 
jealous!  But  that  ain't  the  point  just  now.  The 
point  is  he's  jealous  of  me — and  you  can  see  what 
a  swell  chance  you've  got  of  talkin'  him  over  now, 
can't  you !  You'd  on'y  make  him  madder. 

EMMA — [Embarrassedly.]  He's  getting  foolish. 
What  cause  has  he  got 

BENNY — When  Ma  tells  him  the  lies  about  us — — 

EMMA — [Excitedly.']     What  lies? 

BENNY — I  ain't  goin'  to  repeat  'em  to  you  but 
you  kin  guess,  can't  you,  me  being  so  much  over 
here  ? 


DIFF'RENT  263 

EMMA — [Springing  to  her  feet — shocked  but 
pleased.]  Oh! 

BENNY — [Turning  away  from  her.]  And  now 
I'm  going  to  blow.  I'll  stay  at  Bill  Grainger's  to 
night  and  get  the  morning  train. 

EMMA — [Grabbing  his  arm.]  No  such  thing! 
You'll  stay  right  here ! 

BENNY — I  can't — Emmer.  If  you  was  really  my 
aunt,  things'd  be  diff'rent  and  I'd  tell  'em  all  to  go 
to  hell. 

EMMA — [Smiling  at  him  coquettishly.]  But  I'm 
glad  I  ain't  your  aunt. 

BENNY — Well,  I  mean  if  you  was  related  to  me 
in  some  way.  [At  some  noise  he  hears  from  without, 
he  starts  f  right  enedly.]  Gosh,  that  sounded  like 
our  front  door  slamming.  It's  him  and  he's  coming 
over.  I  got  to  beat  it  out  the  back  way.  [He  starts 
for  the  door  on  the  right.] 

EMMA — [Clinging  to  him.]  Benny!  Don't  go! 
You  musn't  go ! 

BENNY — [Inspired  by  alarm  and  desire  for  re 
venge  suddenly  blurts  out.]  Say,  let's  me  'n'  you  git 
married,  Emmer — tomorrow,  eh?  Then  I  kin  stay! 
That'll  stop  'em,  damn  'em,  and  make  'em  leave  me 
alone. 

EMMA — [Dazed  with  joy.]  Married?  You  'n' 
me?  Oh,  Benny,  I'm  too  old.  [She  hides  Tier  head 
on  his  shoulder.] 

BENNY — [Hurriedly,  zvith  one  anxious  eye  on  the 
door.]  No,  you  ain't!  Honest,  you  ain't!  You're 


264  DIFF'RENT 

the  best  guy  in  this  town !  [Shaking  her  m  his 
anxiety.]  Say  yes,  Emmer!  Say  you  will — first 
thing  tomorrow. 

EMMA — [Choking  with  emotion.]  Yes — I  will — 
if  I'm  not  too  old  for  you. 

BENNY — [Jubilantly.]     Tell  him.     Then  he'll  see 
where  he  gets  off !    Listen !     I'm  goin'  to  beat  it  to 
the  kitchen  and  wait.     You  come  tell  me  when  he's 
gone.     [A  knock  comes  at  the  door.     He  whispers. 
That's  him.     I'm  goin'. 

EMMA — [Embracing  him,  fiercely]  Oh,  Benny! 
[She  kisses  him  on  the  lips.  He  ducks  away  from 
her  and  disappears  off  right.  The  knock  is  re 
peated.  EMMA  dabs  tremblingly  at  her  cheeks  with 
a  handkerchief.  Her  face  is  beaming  with  happiness 
and  looks  indescribably  silly.  She  trips  lightly  to 
the  door  and  opens  it — forcmg  a  light,  careless 
tone]  Oh,  it's  you,  Caleb.  Come  right  in  and  set. 
I  was  kind  of  expecting  you.  Benn^ — I'd  heard 
you  was  due  to  home  tonight.  [He  comes  in  and 
shakes  the  hand  she  holds  out  to  him  in  a  limp, 
vague,  absent-minded  manner.  In  appearance,  he 
has  changed  but  little  in  the  thirty  years  save  that 
his  hair  is  now  nearly  white  and  his  face  more 
deeply  lined  and  wrinkled.  His  body  is  still  erect, 
strong  and  vigorous.  He  wears  dark  clothes,  much 
the  same  as  he  was  dressed  in  Act  One] 

CALEB — [Mechanically]  Hello,  Emmer.  [Once 
inside  the  door,  he  stands  staring  about  the  room, 
frownmg.  Th&  garish  strangeness  of  everything 


DIFF'RENT  265 

evidently  repels  and  puzzles  him.  His  face  wears  its 
set  expression  of  an  emotionless  mask  but  his  eyes 
cannot  conceal  an  inward  struggle,  a  baffled  and 
painful  attempt  to  comprehend,  a  wounded  look  of 
bewildered  hurt.] 

EMMA — [Blithely  indifferent  to  this — pleas 
antly.']  Are  you  looking  at  the  changes  I've  made? 
You  ain't  seen  this  room  since,  have  you?  Of  course 
not.  What  am  I  thinking  of?  They  only  got  through 
with  the  work  two  weeks  ago.  Well,  what  d'  you 
think  of  it? 

CALEB — [Frowning — hesitatingly.]  Why — it's — • 
all  right,  I  reckon. 

EMMA — It  was  so  gloomy  and  old-timey  before, 
I  just  couldn't  bear  it.  Now  it's  light  and  airy  and 
young-looking,  don't  you  think?  [With  a  sigh.]  I 
suppose  Pa  and  Ma  turned  over  in  their  graves. 

CALEB — [Grimly.]     I  reckon  they  did,  too. 

EMMA — Why,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't 
like  it  neither,  Caleb?  [Then  as  he  doesn't  reply, — » 
resentfully.]  Well,  you  always  was  a  sot,  old- 
fashioned  critter,  Caleb  Williams,  same  as  they  was. 
[She  plumps  herself  into  a  rocker  by  the  table — 
then,  noticing  the  lost  way  m  which  he  is  looking 
about  him.]  Gracious  sakes,  why  don't  you  set, 
Caleb?  You  give  me  the  fidgets  standing  that  way! 
You  ain't  a  stranger  that's  got  to  be  invited,  are 
you?  [Then  suddenly  realizing  the  cause  of  his  dis 
comfiture,  she  smiles  pityingly,  not  without  a  trace 
of  malice.]  Are  you  looking  for  your  old  chair 


266  DIFF'RENT 

you  used  to  set  in?  Is  that  it?  Well,  I  had  it  put 
up  in  the  attic.  It  didn't  fit  in  with  them  new  things. 

CALEB — [Dully.]     No,  I  s'pose  it  wouldn't. 

EMMA — [Indicating  a  chair  next  to  hers.]  Do 
set  down  and  make  yourself  to  home.  [He  does  so 
gmgerly.  After  a  pause  she  asks  perfunctorily.] 
Did  you  have  good  luck  this  voyage? 

CALEB — [Again  dully. ]  Oh,  purty  fair.  [He 
begins  to  look  at  her  as  if  he  were  seeing  her  for 
the  first  time,  noting  every  detail  with  a  numb, 
stwrmed  astonishment.] 

EMMA — You're  looking  as  well  as  ever. 

CALEB — [Dully.]  Oh,  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  com 
plain  of. 

EMMA — You're  the  same  as  me,  I  reckon.  [Hap 
pily.]  Why  I  seem  to  get  feelin'  younger  and  more 
chipper  every  day,  I  declare  I  do.  [She  becomes  un 
comfortably  aware  of  his  examination — nervously.] 
Land  sakes,  what  you  starin'  at  so? 

CALEB — [Brusquely  blurting  out  his  disap 
proval.]  You've  changed,  Emmer — changed  so  I 
wouldn't  know  you,  hardly. 

EMMA — [Resentfully.]  Well,  I  hope  you  think 
it's  for  the  best. 

CALEB — [Evasively.]  I  ain't  enough  used  to  it 
yet— to  tell. 

EMMA — [Offended.]  I  ain't  old-timey  and  old- 
maidy  like  I  was,  I  guess  that's  what  you  mean. 
Well,  I  just  got  tired  of  mopin'  alone  in  this  house, 
waiting  for  death  to  take  me  and  not  enjoyin'  any- 


DIFF'RENT  267 

thing.  I  was  gettin'  old  before  my  time.  And  all 
at  once,  I  saw  what  was  happenin'  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  I  was  going  to  get  some  fun  out  of  what 
Pa'd  left  me  while  I  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life, 
as  you  might  say. 

CALEB — [Severely.]  Be  that  paint  and  powder 
you  got  on  your  face,  Emmer? 

EMMA — [Embarrassed  by  this  direct  question] 
Why,  yes — I  got  a  little  mite — it's  awful  good  for 
your  complexion,  they  say — and  in  the  cities  now  all 
the  women  wears  it. 

CALEB — [Sternly]  The  kind  of  women  I've  seed 

in  cities  wearin'  it [He  checks  himself  and  asks 

abruptly]  Warn't  your  hair  turnin'  gray  last  time 
I  was  to  home? 

EMMA — [Flustered]  Yes — yes — so  it  was — but 
then  it  started  to  come  in  again  black  as  black  all 
of  a  sudden. 

CALEB — [Glancing  at  her  shoes,  stockings,  and 
dress.]  You're  got  up  in  them  things  like  a  young 
girl  goin'  to  a  dance. 

EMMA — [Forcing  a  defiant  laugh]  Maybe  I  will 
go  soon's  I  learn — and  Benny's  goin*  to  teach  me. 

CALEB — [Keeping  his  rage  m  control — heavily] 
Benny 

EMMA — [Suddenly  bursting  into  hysterical 
tears]  And  I  think  it's  real  mean  of  you,  Caleb — 
nasty  mean  to  come  here  on  your  first  night  to  home 
— and — make — fun — of — my — clothes — and  every 
thing.  [She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobs] 


238  DIPF'RENT 

CALEB — [Overcome  by  remorse — forgetting  his 
rage  instantly — gets  up  and  pats  her  on  the  shoul 
der — with  rough  tenderness. ]  Thar,  thar,  Emmer! 
Don't  cry,  now!  I  didn't  mean  nothin'.  Don't  pay 
no  'tention  to  what  I  said.  I'm  a  durned  old  fool! 
What  the  hell  do  I  know  o'  women's  fixin's  any 
how?  And  I  reckon  I  be  old-fashioned  and  sot  in 
my  ideas. 

EMMA — [Reassured — pressing  one  of  his  hands 
gratefully.]  It  hurts — hearing  you  say — me  'n' 
you  such  old  friends  and 

CALEB — Forgit  it,  Emmer.  I  won't  say  no  more 
about  it.  [She  dries  her  eyes  and  regains  her  com 
posure.  He  goes  back  to  his  seat,  his  face  greatly 
softened,  looking  at  her  with  the  blind  eyes  of  love. 
There  is  a  pause.  Finally,  he  ventures  in  a  gentle 
tone.]  D'you  know  what  time  this  be,  Emmer? 

EMMA — [Puzzled.]  I  don't  know  exactly,  but 
there's  a  clock  in  the  next  room. 

CALEB — [Quickly.]  Hell,  I  don't  mean  that  kind 
o'  time.  I  mean — it  was  thirty  years  ago  this 
spring. 

EMMA—  [Hastily.]  Land  sakes,  don't  let's  talk 
of  that.  It  only  gets  me  thinking  how  old  I  am. 

CALEB — [With  an  affectionate  smile.]  We  both 
got  to  realize  now  and  then  that  we're  gettin'  old. 

EMMA — [Bridling.]  That's  all  right  for  you  to 
say.  You're  twelve  years  older  'n  me,  don't  forget, 
Caleb. 


DIFF'RENT  269 

CALEB — [Smiling.]  Waal,  even  that  don't  make 
you  out  no  spring  chicken,  Emmer. 

EMMA — [Stiffly.]  A  body's  as  old  as  they  feels 
— and  I  feel  right  young. 

CALEB — Waal,  so  do  I  as  far  as  health  goes.  I'm 
as  able  and  sound  as  ever.  [After  a  pause.]  But, 
what  I  meant  was,  d'you  remember  what  happened 
thirty  years  back. 

EMMA — I  suppose  I  do. 

CALEB — D'you  remember  what  I  said  that  day? 

EMMA — [Primly]  You  said  a  lot  that  it's  better 
to  forget,  if  you  ask  me. 

CALEB — I  don't  mean — that  part  of  it.     I  mean 

when  I  was  sayin'  good-bye,  I  said [He  gasps 

— then  blurts  it  out.}  I  said  I'd  wait  thirty  years 
— if  need  be.  [After  a  pause.}  I  know  you  told 
me  time  and  again  not  to  go  back  to  that.  On'y — 
I  was  thinkin'  all  this  last  vige — that  maybe — now 
when  the  thirty  years  are  past — I  was  thinkin'  that 

maybe [He  looks  at  her  humbly,   imploring 

some  encouragement.  She  stares  straight  before 
her,  her  mouth  set  thinly.  He  sighs  forlornly  and 
blunders  on.]  Thirty  years — that's  a  hell  of  a 
long  time  to  wait,  Emmer — makin'  vige  after  vige 
always  alone — and  feelin'  even  more  alone  in  between 
times  when  I  was  to  home  livin'  right  next  door  to 
you  and  callin'  on  you  every  evenin'.  [A  pause.} 
I've  made  money  enough,  I  know — but  what  the  hell 
good's  that  to  me — long  as  you're  out  of  it?  [A 
pause.]  Seems  to  me,  Emmer,  thirty  o'  the  best 


270  DIFFERENT 

years  of  a  man's  life  ought  to  be  proof  enough  to  you 
to  make  you  forget — that  one  slip  o'  mine. 

EMMA — [Rousing  herself — forcing  a  careless 
tone.]  Land  sakes,  I  forgot  all  about  that  long 
.ago.  And  here  you  go  remindin'  me  of  it ! 

CALEB — [Doggedly.]  You  ain't  answered  what  I 
was  drivin'  at,  Emmer.  [A  pause;  then,  as  if  sud 
denly  afraid  of  what  her  answer  will  be,  he  breaks 
out  quickly.]  And  I  don't  want  you  to  answer 
right  now,  neither.  I  want  you  to  take  time  to 
think  it  all  over. 

EMMA — [Feebly  evasive.]  All  right,  Caleb,  I'll 
think  it  over. 

CALEB — [After  a  pause.]  Somehow — seems  to 
me  'sif — you  might  really  need  me  now.  You  never 
did  before. 

EMMA — [Suspiciously.]  Why  should  I  need  you 
now  any  more'n  any  other  time. 

CALEB — [Embarrassedly.]  Oh,  I  just  feel  that 
way. 

EMMA — It  ain't  count  o'  nothin'  Harriet's  been 
tellin'  you,  is  it?  [Stiffly.]  Her  V  me  ain't  Such 
good  friends  no  more,  if  you  must  know. 

CALEB — [Frowning.]  Her  'n*  me  nearly  had  a 
fight  right  before  I  came  over  here.  [EMMA  starts.] 
Harriet  lets  her  tongue  run  away  with  her  and  says 
dumb  fool  things  she  don't  really  mean.  I  didn't 
pay  much  'tention  to  what  she  was  sayin' — but  it 
riled  me  jest  the  same.  She  won't  repeat  such 
foolishness  after  the  piece  o'  my  mind  I  gave  her. 


DIFF'RENT  271 

EMMA — What  did  she  say? 

CALEB — Oh,  nothin'  worth  tellin'.  [A  pause.] 
But  neither  you  nor  me  ought  to  get  mad  at  Har 
riet  serious.  We'd  ought,  by  all  rights,  to  make 
allowances  for  her.  You  know's  well  as  me  what  a 
hard  time  she's  had.  Bern'  married  to  Alf  Rogers 
for  five  years'd  pizin'  any  woman's  life. 

EMMA — No,  he  wasn't  much  good,  there's  no  de- 
nyin'. 

CALEB — And  now  there's  Benny  drivin'  her  crazy. 

EMMA — [Instantly  defensive.]     Benny's  all  right! 

CALEB — [Staring  at  her  sharply — after  a  pause.] 
No,  that's  jest  it.  He  ain't  all  right,  Emmer. 

EMMA — He  is,  too!     He's  as  good  as  gold! 

CALEB — [Frowning — with  a  trace  of  resentment.] 
You  kin  say  so,  Emmer,  but  the  facts  won't  bear 
you  out. 

EMMA—  [Excitedly.]  What  facts,  Caleb  Wil 
liams?  If  you  mean  the  nasty  lies  the  folks  in  this 
town  are  mean  enough  to  gossip  about  him,  I  don't 
believe  any  of  'em.  I  ain't  such  a  fool. 

CALEB — [Bitterly.]  Then  you've  changed,  Em 
mer.  You  didn't  stop  about  believin'  the  fool  stories 
they  gossiped  about  me  that  time. 

EMMA — You  owned  up  yourself  that  was  true! 

CALEB — And  Benny'd  own  up  if  he  was  half  the 
man  I  was !  [Angrily.]  But  he  ain't  a  man  noways. 
He's  a  mean  skunk  from  truck  to  keelson! 

EMMA — [Springing  to  her  feet.]     Oh! 

CALEB — [Vehemently.]      I   ain't  judged  him  by 


273  DIFF'RENT 

what  folks  have  told  me.  But  I've  watched  him  grow 
up  from  a  boy  and  every  time  I've  come  to  home 
I've  seed  he  was  gittin'  more  'n'  more  like  his  Pa — 
and  you  know  what  a  low  dog  Alf  Rogers  turned 
out  to  be,  and  what  a  hell  he  made  for  Harriet. 
Waal,  I'm  say  in'  this  boy  Benny  is  just  Alf  all 
over  again — on'y  worse! 

EMMA — Oh ! 

CALEB — They  ain't  no  Williams'  blood  left  in 
Benny.  He's  a  mongrel  Rogers !  [Trymg  to  calm 
himself  a  little  and  be  convincing.]  Listen,  Emmer. 
You  don't  suppose  I'd  be  sayin'  it,  do  you,  if  it 
wasn't  so?  Ain't  he  Harriet's  boy?  Ain't  I  brought 
him  up  in  my  own  house  since  he  was  knee-high? 
Don't  you  know  I  got  some  feelin's  'bout  it  and  I 
wouldn't  hold  nothing  agen  him  less'n  I  knowed  it 
was  true? 

EMMA — [Harshly.]  Yes,  you  would!  You're 
only  too  anxious  to  believe  all  the  bad  you  can 
about  him.  You've  always  hated  him,  he  says — and 
I  can  see  it's  so. 

CALEB — [Roughly .]  You  know  damned  well  it 
ain't,  you  mean !  Ain't  I  talked  him  over  with  you 
and  asked  your  advice  about  him  whenever  I  come 
to  home?  Ain't  I  always  aimed  to  do  all  I  could  to 
help  him  git  on  right?  You  know  damned  well  I 
never  hated  him!  It's  him  that's  always  hated  me! 
[Vengefully.]  But  I'm  begining  to  hate  him  now 
— and  I've  good  cause  for  it ! 

EMMA — [F  right  enedly.]     What  cause? 


DIFF'RENT  273 

CALEB — [Ignoring  her  question.]  I  seed  what 
he  was  comin'  to  years  back.  Then  I  thought  when 
the  war  come,  and  he  was  drafted  into  it,  that  the 
army  and  strict  discipline  'd  maybe  make  a  man  o' 
him.  But  it  ain't !  It's  made  him  worse !  It's  killed 
whatever  mite  of  decency  was  left  in  him.  And  I 
reckon  now  that  if  you  put  a  coward  in  one  of  them 
there  uniforms,  he  thinks  it  gives  him  the  privilege 
to  be  a  bully !  Put  a  sneak  in  one  and  it  gives  him 
the  courage  to  be  a  thief!  That's  why  when  the 
war  was  over  Benny  enlisted  again  'stead  o'  goin' 
whalin'  with  me.  He  thinks  he's  found  a  good  shield 
to  cover  up  his  natural-born  laziness — and  crooked 
ness! 

EMMA — [Outraged]  You  can  talk  that  way 
about  him  that  went  way  over  to  France  to  shed  his 
blood  for  you  and  me ! 

CALEB — I  don't  need  no  one  to  do  my  fightin'  for 
me — against  German  or  devil.  And  you  know 
durned  well  he  was  only  in  the  Quartermaster's  De 
partment  unloadin'  and  truckin'  groceries,  as  safe 
from  a  gun  as  you  and  me  be  this  minute.  [With 
heavy  scorn]  If  he  shed  any  blood,  he  must  have 
got  a  nose  bleed. 

EMMA — Oh,  you  do  hate  him,  I  can  see  it!  And 
you're  just  as  mean  as  mean,  Caleb  Williams !  All 
you've  said  is  a  wicked  lie  and  you've  got  no 
cause 

CALEB — I  ain't,  eh?  I  got  damned  good  cause, 
I  tell  ye!  I  ain't  minded  his  meanness  to  me.  I 


274  DIFF'RENT 

ain't  even  give  as  much  heed  to  his  meanness  to  Har 
riet  as  I'd  ought  to  have,  maybe.  But  when  he 
starts  in  his  sneakin'  thievery  with  you,  Emmer, 
I  put  my  foot  down  on  him  for  good  and  all! 

EMMA — What  sneakin'  thievery  with  me?  How 
dare  you  say  such  things? 

CALEB — I  got  proof  it's  true.  Why,  he's  even 
bragged  all  over  town  about  bein'  able  to  borrow 
all  the  money  from  you  he'd  a  mind  to — boastin' 
of  what  an  old  fool  he  was  makin'  of  you,  with  you 
fixin'  up  your  house  all  new  to  git  him  to  comin' 
over. 

EMMA — [Scarlet — Hazing]  It's  a  lie !  He  never 
said  it!  You're  makin'  it  all  up — 'cause  you're — 
'cause  you're 

CALEB — 'Cause  I'm  what,  Emmer? 

EMMA — [Flinging  it  at  him  like  a  savage  taunt.] 
'Cause  you're  jealous  of  him,  that's  what!  Any 
fool  can  see  that! 

CALEB — [Getting  to  his  feet  and  facing  her — 
slowly.]  Jealous?  Of  Benny?  How — I  don't  see 
your  meanin'  rightly. 

EMMA — [With  triumphant  malice. ]  Yes,  you  do! 
Don't  pretend  you  don't!  You're  jealous  'cause  you 
know  I  care  a  lot  about  him. 

CALEB — [Slowly.].  Why  would  I  be  jealous 
'count  o'  that?  What  kind  o*  man  d'you  take  me 
for?  Don't  I  know  you  must  care  for  him  when 
you've  been  a'rnost  as  much  a  mother  to  him  for 
years  as  Harriet  was? 


DIFFERENT  275 

EMMA — [Wounded  to  the  quick — furiously.]  No 
such  thing!  You're  a  mean  liar!  I  ain't  never 
played  a  mother  to  him.  He's  never  looked  at  me 
that  way — never!  And  I  don't  care  for  him  that 
way  at  all.  Just  because  I'm  a  mite  older  'n  him — 
can't  them  things  happen  just  as  well  as  any  other — 
what  d'you  suppose — can't  I  care  for  him  same 
as  any  woman  cares  for  a  man  ?  And  I  do !  I  care 
more'n  I  ever  did  for  you!  And  that's  why  you're 
lying  about  him!  You're  jealous  of  that! 

CALEB — [Staring  at  her  with  stunned  eyes — m  a 
hoarse  whisper.]  Emmer!  Ye  don't  know  what 
you're  sayin',  do  ye? 

EMMA — I  do  too ! 

CALEB — Harriet  said  you'd  been  actin'  out  o' 
your  right  senses. 

EMMA — Harriet's  mad  because  she  knows  Benny 
loves  me  better  'n  her.  And  he  does  love  me!  He 
don't  mind  my  bein'  older.  He's  said  so!  And  I 
love  him,  too ! 

CALEB — [Stepping  bade  -from  her  m  horror.] 
Emmer ! 

EMMA — And  he's  asked  me  to  marry  him  to 
morrow.  And  I'm  going  to!  Then  you  can  all  lie 
all  you've  a  mind  to ! 

CALEB — You're — going  to — marry  Benny? 

EMMA — First  thing  tomorrow.  And  since  you've 
throwed  him  out  of  his  house  in  your  mad  jealous- 
ness,  I've  told  him  he  can  stay  here  with  me  to 
night.  And  he's  going  to ! 


276  DIFFERENT 

CALEB — [His  fists  clenching — tensely.']  Where — • 
where  is  the  skunk  now? 

EMMA — [Hastily.]  Oh,  he  ain't  here.  He's  gone 
up  street. 

CALEB — [Starting  for  the  door  m  rear.]  I'm 
goin'  to  find  the  skunk. 

EMMA — [Seizing  his  arms — / 'right enedly.]  What 
're  you  going  to  do? 

CALEB — [Between  his  clenched  teeth.]  I  don't 

know,  Emmer — I  don't  know On'y  he  ain't 

goin'  to  marry  you,  by  God ! 

EMMA — Caleb!  [She  tries  to  throw  her  arms 
about  him  to  stop  his  going.  He  pushes  her  firmly 
but  gently  aside.  She  shrieks.']  Caleb!  [She 
flings  herself  on  her  knees  and  wraps  her  arms  arownd 
his  legs  m  supplicating  terror.]  Caleb!  You  ain't 
going  to  kill  him,  Caleb?  You  ain't  going  to  hurt 
him,  be  you?  Say  you  ain't!  Tell  me  you  won't 
hurt  him!  [As  she  thinks  she  sees  a  relenting  soft- 
ness  come  into  his  face  as  he  looks  down  at  her.] 
Oh,  Caleb,  you  used  to  say  you  loved  me!  Don't 
hurt  him  then,  Caleb, — for  my  sake!  I  love  him, 
Caleb!  Don't  hurt  him — just  because  you  think  I'm 
an  old  woman  ain't  no  reason — and  I  won't  marry 
you,  Caleb.  I  won't — not  even  if  you  have  waited 
thirty  years.  I  don't  love  you.  I  love  him!  And 
I'm  going  to  marry  him — tomorrow.  So  you  won't 
hurt  him,  will  you,  Caleb — not  when  I  ask  you  on  my 
knees ! 

CALEB — [Breaking  away  from  her  with  a  shudder 


DIFF'RENT  277 

of  disgust.]  No,  I  won't  touch  him.  If  I  was 
wantin'  to  git  even  with  ye,  I  wouldn't  dirty  my 
hands  on  him.  I'd  let  you  marry  the  skunk  and  set 
and  watch  what  happened — or  else  I'd  offer  him 
money  not  to  marry  ye — more  money  than  the  little 
mite  you  kin  bring  him — and  let  ye  see  how  quick 
he'd  turn  his  back  on  ye ! 

EMMA — [Getting  to  Tier  feet — -frenziedly.]  It's  a 
lie !  He  never  would ! 

CALEB — [Unheeding — with  a  sudden  ominous 
calm.]  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  do  neither.  You  ain't 
worth  it — and  he  ain't — and  no  one  ain't,  nor  noth- 
in*.  Folks  be  all  crazy  and  rotten  to  the  core  and 
I'm  done  with  the  whole  kit  and  caboodle  of  'em.  I 
kin  only  see  one  course  out  for  me  and  I'm  goin' 
to  take  it.  "A  dead  whale  or  a  stove  boat?"  we  says 
in  whalin' — and  my  boat  is  stove !  [He  strides  away 
•from  her,  stops,  and  turns  back — savagely.]  Thirty 
o'  the  best  years  of  my  life  flung  for  a  yeller  dog  like 
him  to  feed  on.  God!  You  used  to  say  you  was 
diiF'rent  from  the  rest  o'  folks.  By  God,  if  you  are, 
it's  just  you're  a  mite  madder'n  they  be!  By  God, 
that's  all !  [He  goes,  letting  the  door  slam  to  behind 
him.] 

EMMA — [In  a  pitiful  whimper.]  Caleb!  [She 
sinks  into  a  chair  by  the  table  sobbing  hysterically* 
Benny  sneaks  through  the  door  on  right,  hestitates 
for  a  while,  afraid  that  his  uncle  may  be  coming 
back.] 


278  DIFF'RENT 

BENNY — [Finally,  in  a  shrill  whisper.]  Aunt 
Emmer ! 

EMMA — [Raising  her  face  to  look  at  him  for  a 
second.]  Oh,  Benny !  [She  falls  to  weeping  again] 

BENNY — Say,  you  don't  think  he's  liable  to  come 
back,  do  you? 

EMMA — No — he'll — never — come  back  here — no 
more.  [Sobs  bitterly] 

BENNY — [His  courage  returning,  comes  forward 
into  the  room]  Say,  he's  way  up  in  the  air,  ain't 
he?  [With  a  grin]  Say,  that  was  some  ballin'  out 
he  give  you ! 

EMMA — You — you  heard  what  he  said? 

BENNY — Sure  thing.  When  you  got  to  shoutin' 
I  sneaked  out  o'  the  kitchen  into  there  to  hear  what 
was  goin'  on.  [With  a  complacent  grin]  Say, 
you  certainly  stood  up  for  me  all  right.  You're  a 
good  old  scout  at  that,  d?you  know  it? 

EMMA — [Raising  her  absurd,  besmeared  face  to 
his,  as  if  expecting  him  to  kiss  her]  Oh,  Benny, 
I'm  giving  up  everything  I've  held  dear  all  my  life 
for  your  sake. 

BENNY — [Turning  away  from  her  with  a  look  of 
aversion]  Well,  what  about  it?  Ain't  I  worth  it? 
Ain't  I  worth  a  million  played-out  old  cranks  like 
him?  [She  stares  at  him  bewilderedly :  He  takes  a 
handful  of  almonds  from  his  pocket  and  begins 
cracking  and  eatmg  them,  throwing  the  shells  on  the 
floor  with  an  impudent  carelessness]  Hope  you 


DIFF'RENT  279 

don't  mind  my  havin'  a  feed?  I  found  them  out  in 
the  kitchen  and  helped  myself. 

EMMA — [Pitifully]  You're  welcome  to  anything 
that's  here,  Benny. 

BENNY — [Insolently.]  Sure,  I  know  you're  a 
good  scout.  Don't  rub  it  in.  [After  a  pause — 
boastfully.]  Where  did  you  get  that  stuff  about 
askin'  him  not  to  hurt  me?  He'd  have  a  swell 
chance!  There's  a  lot  of  hard  guys  in  the  army 
have  tried  to  get  funny  with  me  till  I  put  one  over 
on  'em.  I'd  like  to  see  him  start  something !  I  could 
lick  him  with  my  hands  handcuffed. 

EMMA—  [Revolted]     Oh ! 

BENNY—  [Resentfully]  Think  I'm  bluffin'?  I'll 
show  you  sometime.  [He  swaggers  about  the  room 
— finally  stopping  beside  her.  With  a  cunning  leer] 
Say,  I  been  thinkin'  it  over  and  I  guess  I'll  call  his 
bluff. 

EMMA — [Confusedly.]     What — do  you  mean? 

BENNY — I  mean  what  he  said  just  before  he  beat 
it — that  he  could  get  me  not  to  marry  you  if  he 
offered  me  more  coin  than  you  got.  [Very  inter 
estedly]  Say,  d'you  s'pose  the  old  miser  really 
was  serious  about  that? 

EMMA — [Dazedly — as  if  she  could  not  realize  the 
significance  of  his  words]  I — I — don't  know, 
Benny. 

BENNY — [Swaggering  about  again]  If  I  was 
only  sure  he  wasn't  stallin' !  If  I  could  get  the  old 
cuss  to  shell  out  that  way!  [With  a  tickled 


280  DIFF'RENT 

chuckle.]  Gosh,  that'd  be  the  real  stunt  aw  right, 
aw  right.  Oui,  oui!  Maybe  he  wasn't  kiddin'  at 
that,  the  old  simp!  It's  worth  takin'  a  stab  at, 
damned  if  it  ain't.  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  lose. 

EMMA — [F  right  enedly.]  What — what're  you 
talkin'  about,  Benny? 

BENNY — Say,  I  think  I'll  go  over  and  talk  to  Ma 
after  a  while.  You  can  go  over  first  to  make  sure  he 
ain't  there.  I'll  get  her  to  put  it  up  to  him  straight. 
If  he's  willin'  to  dig  in  his  jeans  for  some  real  coin — 
real  dough,  this  time ! — I'll  agree  to  beat  it  and  not 
spill  the  beans  for  him  with  you.  [Threateningly.] 
And  if  he's  too  tight,  I'll  go  right  through  with  what 
I  said  I  would,  if  only  to  spite  him !  That's  me ! 

EMMA — You  mean — if  he's  willing  to  bribe  you 
with  money,  you  won't  marry  me  tomorrow? 

BENNY — Sure !  If  he'll  put  up  enough  money.  I 
won't  stand  for  no  pikin'. 

EMMA — [Whimpering.]  Oh,  Benny,  you're  only 
jokin',  ain't  you?  You  can't — you  can't  mean  it  J 

BENNY — [With  careless  effrontery.]  Why  can't 
I?  Sure  I  mean  it! 

EMMA — [Hiding  her  face  in  her  hands — with  a 
tortured  moan.]  Oh,  Benny ! 

BENNY — [Disgustedly.]  Aw,  don't  go  ballin' ! 
[After  a  pause — a  bit  embarrassedly.]  Aw,  say, 
what  d'you  think,  anyway?  What're  you  takin'  it 
so  damned  serious  for — me  askin'  you  to  marry  me. 
I  mean?  I  was  on'y  sort  of  kiddin'  anyway — just  so 
you'd  tell  him  and  get  his  goat  right.  [As  she  lool:* 


DIFFERENT 

tip  at  him  with  agonized  despair.  With  a  trace  of 
something  like  pity  showing  in  his  tone.]  Say,  hon 
est,  Aunt  Emmer,  you  didn't  believe — you  didn't 
think  I  was  really  stuck  on  you,  did  you?  Ah,  say, 
how  could  I  ?  Have  a  heart !  Why  you're  as  old  as 
Ma  is,  ain't  you,  Aunt  Emmer?  [He  adds  ruthless 
ly.]  And  I'll  say  you  look  it,  too! 

EMMA — [Cowering — a$  if  he  had  struck  her.~\ 
Oh!  Oh! 

BENNY — [A  bit  irritated.]  What's  the  use  of 
blubberin',  for  God's  sake?  Can't  you  take  it  like  a 
sport?  Hell,  I  ain't  lookin'  to  marry  no  one,  if  I  can 
help  it.  What  do  I  want  a  wife  for?  There's  too 
many  others.  [After  a  pause — as  she  still  sobs — 
calculatmgly]  Aw,  come  on,  be  a  sport — and  say, 
listen,  if  he  ain't  willin'  to  come  across,  I'll  marry  you 
all  right,  honest  I  will.  [More  and  more  calcuLat- 
ingly]  Sure!  If  they  mean  that  stuff  about  kickin' 
me  out  of  home — sure  I'll  stay  here  with  you!  I'll 
do  anything  you  want.  If  you  want  me  to  marry 
you,  all  you've  got  to  do  is  say  so — anytime !  Only 
not  tomorrow,  we'd  better  wait  and  see 

EMMA — [Hysterically.]     Oh,  go  away!  Go  away! 

BENNY — [Looking  down  at  her  disgustedly.]  Aw, 
come  up  for  air,  can't  you?  [He  slaps  her  on  the 
back.]  Buck  up!  Be  a  pal!  Tell  me  what  your 
dope  is.  This  thing's  got  me  so  balled  up  I  don't 
know  how  I  stand.  [With  sudden  fury.]  Damn 
his  hide !  I  bet  he'll  go  and  leave  all  he's  got  to  some 
lousey  orphan  asylum  now. 


DIFFERENT 

EMMA — Oh,  go  away !     Go  away ! 

BENNY — [Viciously.]  So  you're  givin'  me  the 
gate,  too,  eh?  I'd  like  to  see  you  try  it !  You  asked 
me  to  stay  and  I'll  stick.  It's  all  your  fool  fault 
that's  got  me  in  wrong.  And  now  you  want  to  shake 
me!  This  is  what  I  get  for  foolin'  around  with  an 
old  hen  like  you  that  oughta  been  planted  in  the 
cemetery  long  ago!  Paintin'  your  old  mush  and 
dressin'  like  a  kid!  Christ  A'mighty! 

EMMA — [In  a  cry  of  despair.]  Don't !  Stop !  Go 
away. 

BENNY — [Suddenly  alert — sharply]  Sh!  I  hear 
someone  coming.  [Shaking  her]  Stop  —  now, 
Emmer !  Damn  it,  you  gotta  go  to  the  door.  Maybe 
it's  him.  [He  scurries  into  the  room  on  right.  There 
is  a  faint  knock  at  the  door.  Emma  lifts  her  head. 
She  looks  horribly  old  and  worn  out.  Her  face  is 
frozen  mto  an  expressionless  mask,  her  eyes  are  red, 
rimmed,  dull  and  lifeless.  The  knock  is  repeated  more 
sharply.  EMMA  rises  like  a  weary  automaton  and 
goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.  HARRIET  is  revealed 
standing  outside] 

HARRIET — [Making  no  movement  to  come  in — 
coldly]  I  want  to  speak  to  Caleb. 

EMMA — [Dully]  He  ain't  here.  He  left  a  while 
back — said  he  was  goin'  up  street — I  think. 

HARRIET — [Worriedly]  Oh,  land  sakes !  [Then 
hostilely]  Do  you  know  where  Benny  is? 

EMMA — [Dully]     Yes,  he's  here. 

HARRIET — [Contemptuously]       I     might     have 


DIFF'RENT  283 

guessed  that!  [Icily  formal.]  Would  you  mind 
tellin'  him  I  want  to  see  him? 

EMMA — [Turns  and  calls.]  Benny!  Here's  your 
Ma! 

BENNY — [Comes  from  the  next  room.]  Aw  right. 
[In  a  fierce  whisper  as  he  passes  EMMA.]  What  d'you 
tell  her  I  was  here  for,  you  old  fool? 

EMMA — [Gives  no  sign  of  having  heard  him  but 
comes  back  to  her  chair  and  sits  down.  BENNY 
slouches  to  the  door — sullenly.]  What  d'you  want, 
Ma? 

HARRIET — [Coldly.]  I  wanted  your  Uncle  Caleb, 
not  you,  but  you'll  have  to  do,  bein'  the  only  man 
about. 

BENNY — [Suspiciously.]     What  is  it? 

HARRIET — [A  bit  f  right  enedly.]  I  just  heard  a 
lot  of  queer  noises  down  to  the  barn.  Someone's  in 
there,  Benny,  sure  as  I'm  alive.  They're  stealin'  the 
chickens,  must  be. 

BENNY — [Carelessly.]     It's  only  the  rats. 

HARRIET — [Angrily.]  Don't  play  the  idiot!  This 
was  a  big  thumpin'  noise  no  rat'd  make. 

BENNY — What'd  any  guy  go  stealin'  this  early — 
[As  HARRIET  turns  away  angrily — placatingly.]  Aw 
right,  I'm  coming.  I'll  have  a  look  if  that'll  satisfy 
you.  Don't  go  gettin'  sore  at  me  again.  [While  he 
is  speaking  he  goes  out  and  disappears  after  his 
mother.  EMMA  sits  straight  and  stiff  in  her  chair 
for  a  while,  staring  before  her  with  waxy  eyes.  Then 
she  gets  to  her  -feet  and  goes  from  window  to  window 


DIPF'RENT 

takmg  down  all  the  curtams  with  quick  mechanical 
movements.  She  throws  them  on  a  pile  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  She  lifts  down*  the  framed  pictures  from 
the  walls  and  piles  them  on  the  curtains.  She  takes 
the  cushions  and  throws  them  on;  pushes  the  rugs 
to  the  pile  with  her  feet;  sweeps  everything  off  the 
table  onto  the  floor.  She  does  all  this  without  a 
trace  of  change  m  her  expression — rapidly,  but  with 
no  apparent  effort.  There  is  the  noise  of  running 
footsteps  from  outside  and  BENNY  bursts  into  the 
room  panting  for  breath.  He  is  terribly  excited  and 
badly  frightened.] 

BENNY — [Stops  short  as  he  sees  the  pile  on  the 
floor.]  What  the  hell 

EMMA — [Dully. ~\  The  junk  man's  coming  for 
them  in  the  morning. 

BENNY — [Too  excited  to  be  surprised.]  To  hell 
with  that !  Say,  listen,  Aunt  Emmer,  he's  hung  him 
self — Uncle  Caleb — in  the  barn — he's  dead ! 

EMMA — [Slowly  letting  the  words  fall — like  a  be 
ginner  on  the  typewriter  touching  two  new  letters.] 
Caleb— dead! 

BENNY — [Voluble  now.]  Dead  as  a  door  nail! 
Neck's  busted.  I  just  cut  him  down  and  carried  him 
to  home.  Say,  you've  got  to  come  over  and  help 
look  after  Ma.  She's  goin'  bugs.  I  can't  do  nothin' 
with  her. 

EMMA — [As  before.]  Caleb  hanged  himself — in 
the  barn  ? 

BENNY — Yes — and  made  a  sure  job  of  it.     [With 


DIFF'RENT  285 

morbid  interest  in  tine  details.]  Know  how  he  did  it? 
You  know  our  barn.  The  same  as  yourn  a'most. 
Well,  he  got  a  halter — same  as  you  got  on  your  cow 
— and  he  made  a  noose  of  the  rope  for  his  neck  and 
climbed  up  in  the  loft  and  hitched  the  leather  end  to 
a  beam  and  then  let  himself  drop.  He  must  have 
kicked  in  that  quick!  [He  snaps  his  fingers — then 
urgently.]  Say,  come  on.  Come  on  over  'n'  help  me 
with  Ma,  can't  you?  She's  goin'  wild.  I  can't  do 
nothin' ! 

EMMA — [Vaguely.]  I'll  be  over — in  a  minute. 
[Then  with  a  sudden  air  of  having  decided  some 
thing  irrevocably .]  I  got  to  go  down  to  the  barn. 

BEN,NY — Barn?  Say,  are  you  crazy?  He  ain't 
there  now.  I  told  you  I  carried  him  home. 

EMMA — I  mean — my  barn.    I  got  to  go  down 

BENNY — [Exasperated.]  Oh  hell !  You're  as  bad 
as  Ma !  Everyone's  lost  their  heads  but  me.  Well. 
I  got  to  get  someone  else,  that's  all.  [He  rushes  out 
rear,  slamming  the  door  behind  him.] 

EMMA — [After  a  tense  pause — with  a  sudden  out 
burst  of  wild  grief.]  Caleb!  [Then  in  a  strange 
whisper.]  Wait,  Caleb,  I'm  going  down  to  the  barn. 
[She  moves  like  a  sleepwalker  toward  the  door  in  the 
rear  as 

[The  Curtain  Falls.] 


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